


John Watson, Bachelor (Director's Cut)

by Rayonea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 188,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayonea/pseuds/Rayonea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For those of you who aren't up-to-date on their Reality TV schedules, Monday night is The Bachelor night. This season, John Watson is the bachelor. This is the Director's cut version - currently over 60,000 words extra and a second epilogue on the way!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Episode One

Episode One

 

“You lucky bastard,” Paul cheered. “I bet you get sucked off by three different girls before the show’s over.”

“Yeah! There’s always at least one slutty one,” Geoff added.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the point,” John mumbled, rubbing his arm futilely, trying to get rid of the jolts radiating from his wound. “And I haven’t accepted, yet, anyway. They told me to think about it.”

Which wasn’t true. He had asked to think about it. And they had said yes, and now he was back to sitting in his medical ward at the veteran’s hospital, with the only two people who really came to visit. Some of the other corps members stopped by, on occasion, but Paul and Geoff _visited_. It was nice.

John had been recovering from this bullet wound for about a month, which was longer than he wanted to be stuck here, but the doctors had been worried about shrapnel infections. He was bored, he was depressed, and he really had no clue what he was going to do with himself now. Having people around was nice, but he wasn’t really close to the guys from his corps. They all liked him well enough. It’s hard not to like the bloke who keeps you from being dead. But none of them knew what to do with an injured depressed army doctor, which he couldn’t blame them for.

Paul and Geoff were different. They came by all the time. They brought portable video games, and tried to goad him in to hitting on nurses, and generally lifted the mood of the whole hospital. The fact that they would stop in almost every day to visit a doctor almost ten years older than they were — who they barely knew before he was hospitalized — _while they were on leave_ — spoke volumes about them. They were good men.

And they really wanted him to be _The Bachelor_.

“You have to do it! Have to.” Paul was getting kind of intense. “You’re the most decent discharge from our corps. Even with the PTSD, you don’t go diving under bed when cups rattle. You’re good-looking; you’re a doctor; what girl doesn’t want a doctor?”

“And you’re a charmer,” Geoff laughed. “People love you.”

“Getting along with guys in barracks is not the same as wooing twenty-five women.” And John wasn’t sure he had the energy for that kind of shenanigan. Even if these two thought he did.

Geoff and Paul were young. Paul was nineteen, fresh, and doing his best to become a doctor. Geoff was Paul’s best friend, and a lot more interested in social schmoozing than good grades.

They were also the culprits here. When the producers came around looking for a veteran to spice up the next season of _The Bachelor_ , they hadn’t hesitated even a second. Not only had they made him out to be the most reasonable, loving, compassionate man on the face of the earth, they had also trumped up the fact that he had been shot while carrying a wounded soldier off the battlefield. Like that wasn’t his _job_. And worst of all, they’d gotten enough support. And the producers liked him.

“You can do it. We picked you for a reason,” Paul sighed. He was going to be really disappointed if John didn’t take this. He could already tell.

And that’s what it came down to. Could he really let down two boys who were going out to the frontline in a month? Especially when they were the most consistent companions he’d had during recovery?

“You guys have a lot of faith in an old man.” John tried to rub the headache out of his forehead. “Even if I somehow end up in a relationship, I doubt it’ll last.”

“It’s better than living alone in an army-paid flat?” Geoff had a point.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He knew he wouldn’t say no. “But you guys have to watch every fucking episode, yeah?”

~

“Hello?” came the scratchy voice.

“Hello. It’s John Watson calling. I just had some questions about the contract conditions in my candidacy for _The Bachelor_.” John kept his sigh from escaping as he heard the flutter of shifting papers on the other end. He had called the producer directly, as he had been instructed. But he wasn’t agreeing to anything without asking questions.

“Of course!” The eagerness was almost flattering. And a bit scary. John wasn’t sure he was happy about how badly they wanted him for this production. “What are you concerned about?”

“I’m just curious as to what exactly I would be signing up for.” John was glad the producer couldn’t see his face. He was sure he looked some combination of terrified and embarrassed. That was exactly how he was feeling, as well. Embarrassed because he was going to agree to this mess of an idea. Terrified because he was handing a very important decision over to a television production. There was no way this could end well. “I’d just like an idea of what I’m required to do.”

“All we ask is that you take some beautiful women on dates. Spend some time with them, and see if you develop an emotional connection.” The producer’s fake smile could even be heard in his voice. “All the technicalities revolve around keeping the goings-on confidential.”

That didn’t sound so bad. But he supposed it wasn’t _supposed_ to sound bad. “Would I be required to develop a relationship? Or marry anyone?”

The producer laughed. “Oh, no, definitely not. We’ve had a few Bachelors just ask the women to keep dating them and break up later. If you don’t find someone for you, you’re not obligated to do _anything_. But we do our best to find someone that you could love. That’s what the personality tests and contestant screenings ensure. We’re working hard for your benefit.”

John couldn’t imagine dragging a woman through a two month ordeal and _not_ loving her for it. But then again, it was very, _very_ possible. That wasn’t the part he would worry about. If there was a proposal coming, he would know.

A sigh. He needed to read the contract carefully. But there wasn’t really anything that they could force him to do that would be life-changing. Or completely against his morals. And he always had the option of leaving without the money. He wouldn’t be any worse off than he was right now.

“When could I go over the contract?”

“I will be there tomorrow,” the evil and happy voice said through the phone. “I would love to go over all our clauses in detail with you.”

“Thank you, Mr Williams.” John couldn’t believe he was doing this.

“Please. Call me Steve.”

~

John had made the phone call twenty minutes ago. It was happening. He was being discharged in three days, and he would go straight from the hospital to a television set. And he would not strain his shoulder or Nurse Janet would kill him with her bare hands.

She also wanted his autograph.

The problem was this: John Watson was not looking for love. Not at all, actually. It would be great to not have to live alone with all the PTSD nightmares, and the psychosomatic limp, and all the evidence of his broken self. But he really didn’t want to inflict that on some girl he had known for a few months. He wanted some sort of companion, but a lover could come later. Once he was settled.

Of course, there was the intense bonding that was bound to happen. Studies had shown that times of intense stress could forge a strong bond in an incredibly short amount of time. This setup created intense stress. He might be engaged when he finished, and chances were high that he would be able to connect with at least one of the women. Even if they never got married, it was probably worth a shot.

And besides, how the hell else does a boring, limping man find a girl?

Maybe that was his problem. Not finding the girl on his own. Maybe it wasn’t really going to take that much to reconcile himself to the idea of it. But the whole idea still put him off.

Even though it was after visiting hours, there was a light knock on the door. A nurse shushed, and pushed Paul through the door, closing it quickly behind him.

“Hey,” Paul said, smiling weakly. He didn’t usually come alone. “I just wanted to stop in and say that I think you need to do this. The bachelor thing, I mean.”

John watched Paul fuss with his sheets before asking what he needed to. “Why’s that?”

“You’re the best man I know. You deserve this.”

If John hadn’t already called, he would have been dialing the number right then.

~

“Why are you choosing _her_?” John yelled at his telly. This was his third season of _The Bachelor_ in seven days. He only had fourteen seasons or so to go. Counting both the American and the UK versions. “Everyone has told you about how awful she is! _Listen to reason!_ ”

It should probably disturb him that he was starting to see the other Bachelors as comrades. They were both going through the same sort of ordeal, even if he had never met them. Some of them were more likeable than others, of course. And he was more-or-less just trying to learn from their mistakes.

He wished they could hear his advice, though. He made a mental note to listen to any advice or warnings he had a chance to hear. It was kind of bitchy, yeah, but those women didn’t warn you about someone for no reason.

He didn’t want to be the one engaged to Courtney Robertson.

~

“We need to screen you for any and all STDs, as well as giving you a general checkup, and having you fill out this personality test.” John looked at the intern like he had grown two heads as he passed over the fifty- or sixty-page questionnaire. The intern gave him a very unimpressed frown. “Hey, I just pass it on. If it makes you feel better, all the bachelorettes get to go through this too. And a triple interview process.”

“Well, I suppose I should be fine.” John thumbed through the booklet without really looking at it. “So, we’ve got three days. What is the schedule?”

“First, I watch you fill this out. It will probably take about three hours. Then you’re free until tomorrow.” The intern sighed and pulled out a book, looking tired already. Just flipping through the booklet in front of him, John could sympathize. “You mind if I sit on your bed?”

“Not at all,” John said, moving over to the desk and chair. The hotel room wasn’t very big, but at least it was spacious enough for both of them. “You said your name was Billy?”

“Yeah. Thanks for not throwing a fit about the test.” Billy sighed again and settled onto the bed. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things the girls say about this stuff.”

“I just hope those ones don’t make it to the final group,” John said with quiet chuckle. He couldn’t imagine throwing a fit about trying to be properly matched by personality. “I’ll try to get this done quickly.”

Billy nodded his thanks, before settling in to read.

~

There was nothing really nerve-wracking — or exciting — about waiting around in the cold in a suit. It was mostly just awkward. Almost as awkward and the good-luck ass-pat from the host he didn’t know. Or the month of preparations and producers. Or saying goodbye to the only life he had thought he would have. He was lucky that the past four weeks of personality tests and date planning had helped him prepare for what was next. That and watching every re-run of _The Bachelor_ that he could find. At least he knew how things were supposed to work, and what he was expected to do, and what was considered “foul play” by the girls in the house.

John knew what came next. Each girl would come out of the car, introduce herself, and head inside. He’d pick the one who made the best impression and give her a rose. Then he’d pick seventeen other girls and give them a rose, ‘breaking the hearts’ of seven girls he barely knew, supposedly in the quest for true love. Not that he had high hopes about that. He also didn’t have high hopes about remembering everyone’s name tonight. He hadn’t managed to learn names until episode three of each season he watched; he assumed his own season would be the same.

The best he could do was be nice, try to let them ‘know’ who he was through a series of over-the-top and ridiculously planned dates, and hope that there wasn’t too much fighting. Though, there would be. And lots of kissing, whether he liked it or not.

There was nothing more awkward than being expected to kiss women you didn’t really know. And John knew some of them would expect that. It wasn’t that it was unreasonable — technically he was dating all of them. The issue was John’s own morals. He didn’t really like stringing along several women at once. Even if they had signed up for this scenario, it still wasn’t fair to them. John had his choice of women. But they only had him.

John’s contemplation was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of a limo. The first girl climbed out, draped in blue chiffon. Blonde hair curled loosely, and wrapped in some sort of pageant sash, she swayed up to him confidently and gave him a tight, chest-out hug.

“And who would you be?” He laughed awkwardly. He was going to try to be friendly, no matter how forced the pleasantries were.

“Elizabeth. I’m a pageant girl from Texas, and I want to be the first to tell you how handsome you are.” The lilting Texan accent was not what he`d been expecting. She smiled with false coyness and shied away a bit, automatically assuming a hands-on-hips quasi-pose. John could feel the dislike already. He tried to suppress it, though.

“Ah, thank you. I’m glad you think so.” At the very least, he could have a full conversation with these girls before he made rash judgments. They deserved that much, even if he was going to make hasty decisions tonight. There wasn’t much option, on that front. He only had a few hours.

John wasn’t sure how he felt about that. No one was going to give him the time to decide on it, though.

The next few girls poured out one at a time, in a similar blur of colours and chiffon and glitter. Cecelia. Lucy. Amanda. Ashley. Anna. There wasn’t anything too noticeable about any of them. They were varying degrees of beautiful, all of them, and they were friendly and nice. Quiet. But he wasn’t too surprised by that. The first night, especially from his side of things, was always boring. He was simply trying to memorize their names and keep track of who did what. If he could do that, he was doing incredibly well, in his opinion.

~

“Well,” Lucy said with a sigh, grabbing a glass of champagne and a chair. The refreshments were free and the girls were going to enjoy them. It had been a long three-month process before they even got to the introductions. Most of them had spent weeks getting ready for that two minute initial conversation, and now they were making small talk amongst each other, after having just met.

“Well, indeed,” agreed Cecelia, sitting beside her. Ashley grabbed one glass, drank it, then grabbed another.

“I feel awful,” she murmured. “This is so awkward.”

“Well, it always is for the first bit,” Amanda crowed. “Nothing we can do about that. But John’s pretty tasty, and he seemed sweet enough. He’s probably great in bed.”

She winked and gave a smile that was a bit more carnivorous than the other women had been expecting. Ashley’s eyebrows went straight up, and Anna went beet red, but the other girls just gave her a series of disappointed looks.

“Can we save the crassness until after the first night?” Elizabeth sighed. “It’s not very dignified.”

“Should there really be _any_ crassness?” Ashley asked incredulously. “There’s no reason for us to act like whores just because we’re competing for one man.”

“Lighten up,” Amanda laughed. “Doesn’t hurt to be a bit crass now and then. Besides, try to tell me you weren’t thinking it.”

Anna excused herself, and Ashley started another drink.

~

  The next limo arrived. John greeted Jennifer, who was sweet and a bit funny. The women were more promising than John had expected. A lot more promising. Apparently the producers actually _meant_ it when they said they were working for him, rather than against him. That was actually a pleasing thought. It didn’t hurt to have a bit of support from the staff, in this situation.

A tall brunette sashayed up to him, after Jennifer had left. She was dressed in a backless green taffeta dress, and seemed a lot more poised than the other girls. She gave him a tight, brief hug before saying anything.

“I’m Tara.” Her voice was quiet, gentle. “I’m from Sussex, and I model for a living.”

“Well, it’s great to meet you,” John beamed. It was incredibly flattering to have a model vying for his attention. He knew better than to trust her immediately, though. Relationships with models had ended badly for a few other Bachelors. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a model before.”

She smiled shyly, and tossed her hair. “Well, I’m pretty much the same as any other girl, so don’t get too excited. You might be disappointed.”

“I don’t think you have to worry,” John laughed. Modesty was a good sign. She seemed sweet, which was far better than he had expected. “I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

She batted her eyelashes before saying goodbye.

~

When Tara breezed in, a few girls glanced her way, skeptically. Obviously sizing her up. The awkward conversation didn’t really pause, though.

Tara grabbed a glass and walked over to where Elizabeth was nibbling at an appetizer.

“A woman of my own calling,” she said with a smile. “My mother always wanted me to do pageants when I was younger.”

Elizabeth smiled and replied, Texan accent ringing, “You do seem like you’ve had some training. You have great posture.”

“The modeling helps,” Tara said with a smile. “I’m sure you do some yourself. You’re perfect for it.”

“A bit,” Elizabeth said, smile growing even bigger. They seemed to be trying to out-smile each other. Either that, or their cheek muscles were spasming. Lucy brushed by on her way to the table and rolled her eyes with a sigh.

Jennifer joined her and grabbed a carrot. “I think it just got a little faker in here.”

“They leave a plastic aftertaste,” Lucy laughed. “It’s alright, there’s lots of other people to talk to.”

“Thank God,” Jennifer agreed. “I can’t wait until John gets back.”

~

Next was Rachel. Laura. Catherine. Amelia. Karen. So far none of them had really said or done much more than introduce themselves and give him a quick hug. But that was to be expected. John wasn’t exactly helping.

His leg was starting to really ache. Shifting around relieved it a bit, but John knew he’d be limping more than usual tomorrow. And it was definitely affecting his introductions. It was hard to hug and meet people when all you could think about was the aching pain in your leg. And how it was stiffening and hurting. And how that was all in your head.

Because there was nothing to make you feel more at ease than knowing you have an imaginary disability. He wondered how the conversation would go if he started with that tidbit. Somehow he figured there would be far less women wanting to meet him.

The next limo brought Lorna. Emily. Adele.  Ellen. And then a girl who was practically sewn into her tiny sequined mini dress, and who waltzed tediously on her ridiculous heels.

“Stephanie, love. Nice to meet you,” she crooned while kissing him on both cheeks. Her hand rested gently on top on his cane hand, not giving half an inch of personal space back. “I bet a vet like you has tons of war stories.”

“Ah, not really.” John eased back just a little, so he could breathe non-perfumed air. “Unfortunately, doctoring isn’t very exciting.”

“I love doctors,” she purred, leaning in to peck him on the cheek. “We’ll get along famously.”

~

By the time Stephanie had come in, most of the women had separated into groups of ‘fake,’ ‘drunk,’ and ‘relatively calm.’ Some of them were getting along better than others. Some were hanging out in the corners, like Anna. Catherine had cornered her and started talking about how amazing John was.

“He’s so fantastic,” Catherine sighed. “I would love to be married to a doctor.”

Anna’s smile was weak and wobbly. She basically vibrated with nervousness. Even her voice was kind of quiet. “It would be great, I think.”

Catherine sighed. “It would be perfect. I work as a neurosurgeon, myself. It would be amazing to have someone who could understand me.”

“It must be interesting work,” Anna replied, unsteadily.

“But so lonely.” Catherine sighed again, and Karen echoed it from nearby, then made a face.

“We can stop complaining any time now,” she called. “You’re here to fall in love, not whine about your life.”

Catherine sniffed a bit and turned away. Lucy laughed.

~

After Stephanie, came Stacy. Then a new limo.  Brittany. Theresa. Andrea. Lisa. And lastly, a woman in a conservative black dress with soft brown hair lying down around her shoulders. She was the first one to offer him a handshake rather than a hug. It was incredibly relieving to have at least one person not falling over him.

“Sarah Sawyer.” She smiled crookedly when she shook his hand. “I’m a nurse practitioner in a London hospital. I hear you’re an army doctor?”

“Ah, yeah. Just retired from service. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a real hospital job.” It was probably the most genuine smile he’d given all night. All he needed was one person who he had something in common with and who he could talk to. No, Catherine the neurosurgeon didn’t count. She wasn’t very friendly and reeked of desperation. But Sarah was a breath of fresh air. Talking to her felt far more natural than any conversation thus far, and that was the most impressive thing John could ask for.

“Well, hopefully this is a good re-introduction to society.” Another understated smile. “We’ll talk more later.”

“Yes. Yes, we certainly will!” He was grinning dumbly

He was struck with how pretty she was, as she walked off behind him. It wasn’t immediately obvious, but she was definitely attractive. The evening was looking a little more promising. His leg still hurt, but he hadn’t been as disappointed with the women as he thought he would be. And — as far as he could tell — he would get to sit down soon.

But not yet. The overly friendly host was back, with extra cameras. But no ass-pats, thankfully.

“We’ve got one more for you, John. And I hope you’re braced for it!” It’s funny how shyster-like telly hosts can sound. He couldn’t imagine he’d be too shocked with their ‘big surprise.’

The last limo drives slowly. Dramatically. Really, really slowly. And then the door pops open. And a man steps out. A tall, striking man, with almost clichéd alabaster-pale skin, and loose, curly hair. He was handsome, with sharp blue-grey eyes, and, honestly, imposing. Even though he was dressed in designer clothes, the man was not ‘put together.’ And he was very sensibly wearing a coat and scarf.

John found himself properly stunned. And feeling a little frumpy in his awkward suit. Almost as if there was a direct comparison between him and the gorgeous man, and he was found lacking. Which was awkward to think about, both because it made John feel unworthy of being there and because this man was captivating his attention. He shouldn’t be so fixated on a man, when he was surrounded by so many girls. Especially since he wasn’t gay, last time he checked. He wondered if the woman he had come with was just as gorgeous.

But there wasn’t a woman with the mystery man. The limo pulled away immediately after he stepped out, and the man scowled as it left, then stalked purposefully towards John, who was still being suitably shocked. John watched him get closer, watching every motion, the swish of his coat, the confidence in his stride. The quintessential of tall, dark, and mysterious.

The man thrust his hand out. “Sherlock Holmes. World’s only consulting detective. John, I presume?”

“Yeah. John Watson, nice to meet you.” Sherlock’s handshake was firm. Authoritative. Something John could respect.

“They wanted me to hug you, but I compromised for a handshake. Apologies for any awkwardness.” He didn’t seem apologetic. In fact, he seemed about as far from it as could be. And there was only one reason why they would want him to introduce himself with a hug.

John was starting to pick up on what his surprise was. Though he thought that perhaps consulting him about his sexual preferences might have been a politesse on the part of the producers.

“Are you here as one of the...” There was no gender neutral word for ‘bachelorettes.’ “...participants, then?”

“Yes. Is it going to be a problem?” Sherlock temporarily looked worried. Just a fleeting expression, but something. John latched onto it like a lifeline. He wanted this man to like him, whether the thought was rational or not. And he wanted to make this friendly.

“Well, I’ve never dated a man before, but I’m perfectly willing to try,” John chuckled. If he could lighten the mood, he would. “I did spend six years in the army.”

Sherlock’s face contorted slightly. Obviously joking hadn’t been the right way to handle that. He shook his head slowly, almost as if he were attempting to dispel his obvious disgust and the lingering awkwardness. John felt the embarrassment settle to the very pit of his stomach.

“Yes...” Looking beyond him, toward the door, Sherlock seemed to be searching for an exit and John immediately wanted to die quickly and painlessly of embarrassment. “Well, I suppose they’ll want me inside now.”

“Probably.”

And Sherlock was gone. Easy as that. He got to escape with all his confidence and razor-sharp aura intact and mingle with the women. Forget about how awkward the last two minutes had been. John, however, got to sit on a bench waiting for the film crew to catch some of the interaction between the ‘girls’ before his entrance.  To a casual observer, he looked more or less calm. On the inside, he was panicking. 

He blew it. He really blew that one. And somehow that awkward first meeting with Sherlock was the only one that mattered out of all the awkward meetings. Which also caught him off guard. He really should have more remorse for the other awkward meetings, but he didn’t. All his thoughts were lingering on those tense moments with Sherlock. Which was odd. John really didn’t consider himself gay — or bi. He’d never dated a man, never taken comfort in other men while he was on the frontline. But the idea of loving another man didn’t bother him. With his sister and the generation he had grown up in, he had never found anything to be bothered by. It was all love, yeah? That was all that really mattered.

But Sherlock. Sherlock was glimmering with intelligence, poise, character. John wanted to know what a consulting detective was, what kind of books he read, and why he was here. Sherlock may be the only person on this set who could understand what John was undertaking. Someone who could intellectually understand that John wasn’t here for love so much as duty. The only person who might not be insulted by that fact. Which was a huge leap of assumption on John’s part, but one he found himself making anyway. It wasn’t fair to make those judgments but, in less than two minutes, he had. Sherlock drew that kind of trust from him. And he seemed genuine. He didn’t laugh if the joke wasn’t funny. He hadn’t made any pretenses or tried to trump up how awesome he was. He hadn’t grabbed John and hugged him or taken away his personal space. That was a lot more than the majority of the women had done.

Controlled. Sherlock was controlled. But he obviously had opinions and wasn’t afraid of showing them. Controlled passion, maybe? Something. Something intriguing was lurking just below what John could see and he was irrationally fascinated. He felt like he shouldn’t be fascinated. Here was a typical straight man finding out that another man was going to be vying for his affection. It didn’t make sense for him to be drawn to Sherlock. He should be disgusted. Or scared. Or offended. And probably less ashamed of his bad joke.

And to top it off, Sherlock didn’t come off as gay. He wondered if that was a good or bad thing.

At least he felt appropriately confused.

~

The noise level in the house had been tolerable until Sherlock walked in.

“Oh my _God_ , he’s bi?!” shrieked the girl across the room — Karen. She had been fairly blunt all evening, and she was getting more candid with the addition of wine. Most of the girls looked frantic.

“We have no chance, do we?” Rachel cried. “This is so unfair.”

Sarah patted her arm. “Hardly. There’s twenty-four of us and one man. The odds are for a girl winning.”

“What if he likes guys better, though? We’re all fucked.” Rachel was rapidly tearing up.

“If he liked guys better there would be more guys here. Not just one,” Sarah pointed out calmly. “And he certainly seemed happy enough to have a parade of women come in.”

~

“I still think this is horribly unfair,” Rachel cried to the confessional, later, looking a lot more emotionally worn down. “I can’t believe they wouldn’t warn us about him.”

~

Oddly, Sherlock found himself encircled, rather than shunned. Not a comfortable feeling, he decided. He hadn’t needed to know how it felt to drown in bolts of chiffon and taffeta.

“So, do you only like men, then?” Stephanie crooned at him.

“I like not being hounded about my sexuality by women I don’t know.” He had expected questioning, and his plan was to simply avoid it. The less socializing he did, the better.

“I didn’t realize we were allowed casual relationships? It’s weird there are _so_ many women and just one man.” Tara giggled. He instantly hated her. She leaned forward, showing some cleavage. “I didn’t think they would be so...accommodating of John’s options.”

Sherlock made a bit of a face at what she was obviously trying to imply. It was hard to avoid. He didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he just observed.

Tara. The way she poses when she stands, the build, the _eau du perfection_ that she thought she was wearing — probably a model. The bone structure of her face sealed it. The nasty comments showed a discreet lack of self-worth that she was displacing on other people, and her long green dress probably meant that she was self-conscious about her legs.  What kind of a model hides their legs during a party? As for intelligence quotient, she scored pretty low.

Honestly, there were a lot better options in this room.

“Well, you’ll have a lot of competition, anyway,” Tara continued, frown slithering across her face. Sherlock felt a bit of pride in making her unhappy. “There are twenty-four gorgeous women here.”

“A few, maybe,” Sherlock replied, feeling no need to be polite. “I hope you’re not counting yourself.”

“Excuse me?” Tara half-screeched, the fake smile popping back onto her face. Stephanie’s face twisted a bit. Hiding a smile. Somehow Sherlock wasn’t surprised that she had an affinity for nasty comments. She obviously worked in theatre and film, judging by her weight, carefully prepped appearances, and extreme self-awareness. She was used to cameras and an audience — which meant she was probably also used to this kind of fight. “At least I’m a woman.”

Tara’s bitchy comment was a bit predictable. But it came dripping in rage and unwarranted hatred. This was going to be more fun than Sherlock thought. No need to be nice or fake societal politeness. The producers were going to love him.

“And at least I have legs worth looking at,” Sherlock returned, letting his comment shatter her self-esteem. She was cruel, and he would be cruel back. It didn’t have to be true to hurt, it just had to attack the right weakness.

“I might not be perfect, but at least I’m not a faggot, just here to suck a cock and get to the top,” Tara growled. Oh, was that homophobia? This was getting more exciting by the moment. A bit of antagonism was just what Sherlock needed to make this evening interesting.

“You may be here for the sex, but I’m here for the company. And the free refreshments. If you ladies will excuse me.”

He could almost hear her break down as he glided towards the food platter. Not the wittiest comment he’d ever made, but oh-so-satisfying, nonetheless. It was nice to not have to fit in.

~

“That fucking dick,” Tara hissed at a confessional camera. “I don’t know why he’s even here. Everyone knows that fags aren’t faithful; there’s no point trying to build something meaningful with him.”

She should have been glad that John hadn’t heard her.

~

“I’m just so, so happy to be here,” Catherine mumbled forcibly. She didn’t actually seem happy to be here. Ironic. “I really need a good man like you.”

Comments like that never really sat well with John. Both because she didn’t actually know anything about him yet and because she was perfectly fine without a man. He never understood why intelligent, successful women thought a husband was so necessary. Not desirable, or wanted, but literally necessary.

“You don’t seem like you need a man. You said you were a neurosurgeon?” He was hoping to change subjects.

“I’m almost thirty; the biological clock is ticking,” she laughed, ignoring his question. “I thought I might die alone. But now that you’re here, I think I’ve found my true love.”

Okay, now she was just lying. She hadn’t said anything even remotely on a different subject all night. John had managed to say nothing that wasn’t a futile change of subject. This was not a love-at-first-sight situation.

“Well, I hope I don’t disappoint you,” John forced out. He already knew he would. Thank God her fifteen minutes were up. “I think our time is up.”

“My prince is leaving?” She quickly leaned in and kissed him. John knew he made a face. He could feel the muscles scrunch together. He just hoped she didn’t see it. “Come back soon, darling.”

He smiled weakly at that and, showing impeccable restraint, walked calmly away. Sweet, sweet escape. Spending equal time with the women was difficult. Especially when some of them were so obviously faking attraction or were just painfully awkward. They didn’t need to fake. John would hardly expect anyone to fall head-over-heels for him in less than twenty minutes. It was just impossible.

~

“I never thought I’d say it, but I think I love him,” Lucy whispered to a confessional. “He’s really nice, and friendly, and just...perfect. I usually go for the rough and dangerous ones. But John is nice and concerned and wants to know about my day job.”

She smiled, tearing up a little, before shrugging.

“I guess he’s everything I never thought I wanted.”

A pause.

“That was cheesy. Can I take it back?”

~

“What do you think of Sherlock?”“ Ashley murmured, tossing her dark hair over one shoulder. “Were the producers really that desperate?”

“He’s handsome,” Amelia shot back. “And he seems genuine. That’s more than you can say about some of the girls.”

Ashley’s laugh cut through the room, just a little too loud. “About half the girls here are desperate whores!” she giggled, slurring a little. Her voice came back down to a bit of a whisper, like she was keeping everything they said a secret. “Whores and bitches.”

“We’re all here for love,” Amelia countered. She might be short but she was not intimidated. And Ashley was more than a bit drunk and had been rubbing her the wrong way for over an hour.

“You’re alright, though, Amy.”

“Amelia.”

“Amelia. Whatever,” Ashley giggled again, slinging her arm over the other girl’s shoulder. Amelia shrugged her off. “You’re alright, regardless. Even if you are a china doll.”

“I’m Korean.” Alright, that was it. It was someone else’s turned to babysit the drunk bitch. “I’m going to head to the bathroom. Why don’t you go over and talk to one of the other girls?”

Ashley was just sober enough to not teeter as she walked. Just. And she took her sort-of-passable swagger straight over to the punch bowl, or tried. Andrea intercepted her before she got there.

“Whoa, I think that’s enough,” Andrea said, gently steering her towards a chair. “Sit down and have some water for a bit.”

“Gotta drink. Party when you can.” Ashley grinned widely, like she was pleased with herself.

“You don’t want to pass out before he hands out the first impression rose, do you?” The girls had been tracking that rose all evening. So far it was still sitting on the living room table, and no one was safe yet. “Or the rose ceremony?”

“I just want all the whores to go away. I’m in law school. I shouldn’t have to deal with whores.” Ashley giggled and Andrea frowned. Maybe she could let her bartending instincts go just this once.

“Right, then. Have fun with oblivion and try not to throw up.”

~

“That girl — Ashley, or whatever — she is drunker than I am,” Karen almost hollered at the confessional. “And I’m pretty damn drunk. At least I’m not a bitch, though!”

~

Sherlock had not expected the female attention he was getting. By the end of an hour he had attracted a small cluster of women who seemed to want to make friends, despite the fact that he wasn’t even trying to be nice. At least four of them were insincere. The other three seemed to be fawning a little. The group of them had taken up most of the seats around Sherlock, and the last two had brought their own chairs from somewhere else. It almost felt like they were trying to intimidate him with their femininity.

Amanda, specifically, had given up any sense of decorum in her slightly tipsy state and was trying to cling to him. Sherlock, of course, was desperately trying to get out of her grabbing range without having to physically move off the couch.

“Hey, handsome. Want a glass of wine?” she drooled. She really didn’t need another glass. Not that she was as drunk as she was letting on. Her hands were too steady and she wasn’t really slurring. She was just trumping up her inebriation, out of habit, it seemed. Indicating that she worked among alcohol, but not as a waitress or a bartender — she’d have to stay sober in those jobs. More likely a dancer, or a stripper, something where she would have clients that buy her drinks. Drunkenness is something to tease with in those jobs. Her streaky, blonde, dyed hair was probably for the job as well.

“As a reminder, ‘handsome’ is not my name.” Sherlock was not drinking tonight. With this many people around, inebriation was not an option.

“Well, maybe we should go somewhere quieter to talk. It’s getting noisy in here.” She was already tugging on his arm, and the girls next to him were making faces and whispering furiously.

“Really? You really want alone time with someone other than John?” Lucy gave Amanda a disgusted stare. At least having the girls around made sure he had someone who was as horrified as he was.

“I’m staying here. John should be back soon,” Sherlock argued. Oh please, come back soon. And preferably take this girl away. She had her hand on his knee again.

Merciful, merciful John walked in right then, and Sherlock gave him his best ‘helpmesaveme’ look as he tried to struggle away. Fortunately, John got the hint.

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m taking away the star of the night,” he said grinning. “Sherlock stole the limelight, didn’t he?”

The girls nearby immediately zoned in on John, most of them glancing at the rose he had just picked up off the table. Amanda had, thankfully, let go, and gone back to fawning over John with the rest of the girls.

“It’s my turn?” Sherlock asked, eager to be gone. “Where are we off to?”

Stealing away with the efficiency of necessity, John led him to a bench by the completely unnecessary pool. “You’ve been popular, then. I think you’re going to end up with a girl before I do.”

He was laughing, but Sherlock could see the nervous shifting in his hands, and the way he leaned heavily on the cane while walking. John sat down with a heavy sigh. Obviously in pain. None of the women had noticed, surprisingly. Unobservant twats. Sherlock made a face and sat down next to him.

“They’re here for you, not me. Thankfully.” That was very earnest relief Sherlock was expressing. He wouldn’t be caught dead with any of these idiots. “So _very_ thankfully.”

The girls had been far too clingy and insipid, and most of them had been there to catch a bit of the shock value Sherlock had brought. Ridiculously pathetic. They all needed that reassurance of a relationship and some fame.

“Not your type then?” John kept fidgeting with the rose he was holding. Sherlock hadn’t noticed it until now, which disappointed him. His observation skills were better than that. He assumed that John must be planning to cut his time short and go give the rose away right after.

The lack of tact that represented was driving Sherlock insane. There was no reason to be this nervous about a conversation. Especially when John had been mostly calm when he spoke to the women. Perhaps he was regretting not rejecting him immediately?

“This really isn’t my area.” And it wasn’t. Guessing games and intangible feelings that messed with your rational thinking were generally disruptive. It was confusing and painful, and he knew already he was going to be rejected. Pity.

John stopped fidgeting then. Put down the rose, and gave him a puzzled look.

“What isn’t? Gaggles of women?”

“Romance in general. I try not to waste energy or time on it.” Sherlock settled back, and put his feet on the patio coffee table. It was best not to get anyone’s hopes up. “I consider myself married to my work.”

He wasn’t expecting the genuine concern in the next question.

“...Are the producers holding you against your will?” John asked, fearfully. Worried. He looked worried. Huh. Sherlock wasn’t sure how to parse that. Genuine concern had not been what he’d been expecting. “Or did they bribe you? Because you don’t have to stay.”

“No, no! I was bored,” he explained without explaining. John obviously didn’t understand how boredom had anything to do with this. Maybe it was simply that the doctor was tired and he imagined his leg was hurting and his shoulder wound was acting up, but John looked exhausted very suddenly. Sherlock almost felt sorry for the man. It couldn’t have been an easy evening for him.

“You were bored?” John’s confused face was admittedly...endearing.

“Yes.” Sherlock paused and watched John’s countenance fall, then figured he should fill that in a bit. “It seemed like an interesting diversion and my landlady found it preferable to my usual experiments.”

“Experiments?” John asked, lighting up with curiosity again. Sherlock found himself continuing. The worst that could happen is John knew what kind of a person he was. It wouldn’t change the fact that he wasn’t going to last long.

“Necessary for my detective work,” Sherlock sighed. “She finds the noise and smoke to be a bit odious.”

To his surprise, John chuckled. “I can see how that might annoy her. But I’m glad it was your choice to be here.”

“Of course it was,” Sherlock scoffed. What kind of a weak-minded idiot did John take him for? “They wouldn’t keep someone here by force. It’s a very legal production, despite their questionable morals.”

John smiled quietly. It was good to see someone smile at him, which was unusual. Normally, Sherlock wouldn’t care either way.

 John changed the subject.

“I’m sorry for making things uncomfortable earlier,” he winced.

“Mm?” Sherlock had to think for a moment. It had been awkward, but he wasn’t sure it was John’s fault. He could have tried to smooth that moment over. But _really_. Was he supposed to laugh at that joke? There wasn’t really an appropriate way to respond to that kind of insinuation. “Oh, no apology necessary.”

“I should have thought a bit before I spoke,” John babbled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and cut off John’s next sentence with a wave.

“Stop worrying. It was fine. I should have responded better.” John paused, and twirled the stem of the rose again. Sherlock could feel the conversation ending.

“How would you feel about getting the first rose?” John blurted. He immediately blushed and rubbed his forehead. “I mean, you don’t have to take it. I can let you go home now, if you’d rather. No pressure on my side. I just, I think.” John flushed deeper. His attempts at explanation made him ramble. “This is probably silly, isn’t it? It’s just, ah, I think I want you to have it. If you want to stay, I mean. No pressure if you don’t want to! Seriously, I don’t mean to be pushy.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to be confused.

“Why?” Seeing John’s half-crushed face, he qualified it. “Why me?”

“I’d like to talk to you more, if nothing else. And you were quite the first impression.” Hope. That was hope sparkling in John’s eyes. Well, damn. As far as Sherlock was aware he had been awkward and unkind and vague. Not remotely relationship material. Not someone that you might be able to see a second date with, much less a future. Somehow, John Watson had lasted through a conversation with him and still wanted to see him the next day.

Sherlock thought that might be a first. And John really was far less vapid than he was expecting. Interesting even.

“I accept.” Sherlock dramatically picked up the rose, snapped the stem off and popped it in to his buttonhole, smirking in victory. John perked up as well. “But since you’re keeping me, I’ll warn you that I’m very competitive.”

“You’ll fit right in.” They both smiled.

~

Panic spread through the girls almost immediately after Sherlock walked in again. He had the rose, oh shit, _he had the rose_. That left every single one of them as fair game for going home. On night one. The most shameful night to be cut. Welcome to dating nightmares.

He wasn’t quite so welcome at his seat on the couch, anymore. Most of the smiles he got were cold, and there weren’t as many of them as there had been. Sherlock wasn’t going to worry about it. Somehow, out of all the pretty and nice girls, he had gotten the first pick. That was enough to satisfy him for now.

And the claws were coming out.

“So you got a rose for having a penis?” Lucy was smiling, but not in a friendly way. “Is that really fair?”

“My penis is apparently more interesting than twenty-four vaginas,” Sherlock responded. It wasn’t difficult to be a bitch back, and actually felt somewhat cathartic. He hadn’t had nicotine in hours, and his patience was starting to thin. “I think it may have been the entire lack of desperation that won him over though.”

“Are you saying I’m desperate?” Lucy snapped. He could’ve sworn he saw her snarl. Mm. He thought he might get that reaction.

“I think you know.” With a grin, he got up and took himself to the fruit tray.

~

“I knew he was gay,” Rachel wailed. “I knew it. Oh god, this is so unfair! Why are they doing this to us?”

~

“And I see some cocks were sucked already,” Tara hissed. “Goddamn fags. John will regret _that_ decision later.”

~

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Adele snapped. “So all I had to do to impress him was be a guy? Because that’s possible, yeah?”

~

“He walked in smiling, with that rose in his lapel, and there was pandemonium.” Cecelia, at least, seemed mostly calm. “I do agree that not being a girl is a pretty strong impression. I mean, if I had a penis? I’d be sure to mention it.”

~

“I’m glad he’s staying.” Amanda winked.

~

“Fuck,” Lisa swore, heading back towards the bar. “Why the fuck am I even here?”

“Because you’re a whore,” Ashley slurred from beside her, an awkward smile on her face. “We’re all whores here, apparently.”

“And you’re the drunkest whore of us all,” Lisa snapped back, downing a glass of wine at the same time. “I hope your fucking liver gives out.”

“Hey, don’t take your anger out on her,” Jennifer commented.

“Stay the fuck out of it,” Lisa yelled. “It’s none of your fucking business.”

“Alright, then.”

As Jennifer moved out of the blast zone, she noticed Lucy. Lucy was on the other side of the room, almost crying, making a bit of a spectacle of herself. A small crowd of girls were surrounding her, trying to calm her down. She wasn’t sure what happened but she could guess.

Steering herself away from that area too, Jennifer found herself face to face with Sherlock Holmes. The man of the hour.

“Well, who do we have here,” she murmured. “You’ll probably want to stay out of here for a while.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Sherlock responded with wicked glee. He didn’t seem too put out, standing against a wall just within hearing range of a few of the gossiping groups. He took a slow sip of his drink before continuing. “I assume the wailing and screaming girls don’t want to see me?”

Jennifer laughed. “Not overly. Most of them are bitches, though, so you’re not missing much.”

“Ah, glad to hear it. Sherlock Holmes, by the way. I don’t think we’ve met.” He didn’t offer his hand.

“Jennifer Strum. Nice to meet you.”

~

“Wow, take things personal much?” Karen giggled. “They’re so upset about this guy they barely know, and really? It’s hilarious. Drama queens are awesome for entertainment. It’s too bad John is missing the fun.”

~

“I shouldn’t be so upset,” Lucy cried, a little pathetically. “I mean, he doesn’t know me yet. I just need to win him over.”

She wiped at her eyes, tears threatening.

“I just want John to keep me for a little longer.”

~

“Well, I wasn’t expecting the first rose to go to Sherlock, but alright,” Sarah said to her confessional. “It’s not the end of the world.”

~

As the girls (and Sherlock) lined up for this somewhat ridiculous ceremony, John wondering what Paul and Geoff were going to think of his choices. They’d probably pick a girl to root for, over Sherlock, but neither were really homophobic. Geoff kind of came off as gay, once you got to know him. John had never bothered to ask, though.

He just hoped they weren’t disappointed too badly with whoever he chose. Because now that he was here, he was going to do what he wanted. If he was aiming for love, he could at least make sure he liked the person he picked.

And this rose ceremony thing? Was only nerve-wracking because he couldn’t remember all their names. It was pretty obvious to him, who he didn’t immediately like. The long drawn out ‘will you accept this rose’ nonsense was just for drama.

Sherlock winked from the front row. That brought a smile to John’s face. It was time to call some names.

But first, Dave, the host, came out with the big tray of roses, and began his speech.

“Ladies,” he said, a lot more suavely than he had earlier, “it’s time for the first rose ceremony. As I’m sure you all know, Sherlock has received the first impression rose this evening. There are seventeen more roses to be had, which means that seven of you will be going home. John.”

John started with the names he remembered.

“Sarah.” She came slowly towards him, smiling. She had been nice to talk to, even though the conversation mostly centered on hospitals in the London area. If nothing else, she was the woman he felt most at ease with. “Will you accept this rose?”

Lifting it gently out of his hand, she murmured, “Of course.”

“Cecelia.” The rustling of chiffon, as Cecelia made her way from the back row. She had been good conversation, too. Calm and quite interesting. Not surprising from someone in marketing. “Will you accept this rose?”

She smirked and gave him a hug before taking it. “Always.”

The next few girls were all tolerable and seemed nice enough when he’d been talking to them. Lucy, Adele, Stacy, Jennifer, Amelia, Rachel. Amanda stayed because she was funny. Karen stayed because her good-natured bluntness had been so shocking. Emily, Laura, Ellen, Anna. All four of them had been shy and very nervous, but they seemed nice. And they weren’t molesting him in desperation.

Stephanie was staying, despite her lack of personal space. She had toned it down when he talked to her, and he was willing to give her a second chance. As long as he was given enough room to breathe.

Andrea seemed to be incredibly responsible and collected. If nothing else he appreciated that.

Dave stepped up beside him after that. “Ladies, this is the final rose for this evening.

“Tara,” John called, confidently. She had been incredibly sweet to him during both conversations. Sometimes the politeness had been a little forced, but John chalked that up to nerves. There was a lot more at stake on their side than on his.

Rustling down, she seemed happy and grateful. She gave him a long hug, before whispering, “Thank you.”

Sherlock was the only one who saw her smirk.

The last rose meant that Brittany (uninterested and shallow), Ashley (drunk), Lorna (painfully awkward), Lisa (loud and angry), Theresa (fake), Elizabeth (extra fake), and Catherine (desperate) were going home. He felt bad about Catherine. He had a feeling her self-esteem was really tied in to this. But honestly, he couldn’t give her a rose. He needed to be more to her than a badge of accomplishment.

Most of the girls stopped to hug him on the way out. As awkward as that was. He wished them good luck and told them they were pretty. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Lisa stomped past him, without a single word.

Catherine paused and started crying.

“Hey, no. No crying. There are better blokes out there than me.” John really did feel bad. “Chin up, okay?”

He gave her a consolation kiss on the cheek, and the host came and lead her off.

~

“I just want someone to love me,” Catherine cried to the camera outside. “Anyone. I deserve love. It’s not fair.”

She took a moment to wipe her eyes and shake her perfect curls.

“Where’s my prince charming? Why am I so alone?”

~

“He’s just an asshole,” Lisa grumbled.

~

“I don’t understand what I did wrong.” Elizabeth was tearing up, plastic smile still stuck to her face. “I was friendly, and pretty and outgoing. Life isn’t fair sometimes.”

She hid her face before the camera could see the smile come down or the tears mess up her makeup.

~

“I told you they were whoresh,” Ashley mumbled, a drink still in her hand. “I guessh he likes that.”

~

John got to his room at two in the morning. So much for a good night’s sleep. And they had to travel tomorrow, and he had to think about who to invite on dates, and the producers wanted to double-check the list before he sent it, and he had no clue. He didn’t even remember what they were supposed to be doing on these dates.

He knew he couldn’t invite Sherlock on a one-on-one. That would be playing favourites, and he genuinely wanted to give all the girls a fair chance. He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that he wanted his first date to be Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t traditionally friendly, or outgoing, or any of the things he was supposed to like. But he liked him anyway. And if he thought about it too hard he was going to end up doubting his sexuality and it was simply too late a night for those kinds of thoughts.

At least his other one-on-one choice was fair. Sarah was getting an invite, for sure. He didn’t have to think about that choice.

And maybe Karen? Karen was interesting. It’d be fun to have her around. And honestly, if he thought too hard about his choices nothing was going to get done. He needed two singular dates and ten choices for his group date.

So, group date. Jennifer, Lucy, Rachel, Adele, Ellen, Laura...

...Theresa? No, Theresa was gone.

Amelia, Tara. That was eight. 

Andrea. And Sherlock. Definitely, Sherlock, no questions there. Hopefully that would satisfy the producers. And hopefully it wasn’t always this hard to come up with lists. It was getting closer to three o’clock.

Those army boys had better freaking love this when it airs. He expected fan letters from Paul and Geoff. Though he figured he’d probably get them anyway. 


	2. Episode Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Two - Cork City, Ireland

Episode Two

 

Traveling officially sucked. Most of the time the girls were separated off and paired with crew members, so they didn’t have much time to interact either with each other or with John. The silent cameramen were strange, but easy to ignore. It ended up being like traveling alone.

The first destination was Cork City, Ireland. They were shuffled into a huge suite in a five star hotel with enough beds for seventeen women and an adjoining room for Sherlock. And then promptly instructed to not leave the room. They could use the internet, but all online activity would be screened, and they could use their phones, but only once a week and their calls would be screened. The only thing that didn’t seem to be screened was what they watched on the telly.

Day one was traveling. Day two was a rest day — most of the girls slept and organized their luggage. Sherlock had spent most of his time watching Jeremy Kyle reruns, bored out of his mind. No drugs, no criminals, no cases, and just one channel of news. Boring.

By the evening he was dying for some drama. Just to have something to do.

He had partially decided and partially been told to spend his free time in the large living room portion of the women’s suite. He wanted to be part of the shenanigans and the producers wanted to be sure he was on camera. So it was win-win, in that one aspect.

What wasn’t quite so amazing was the fact that they were just talking and sitting around until the first date invitation was delivered. Apparently this was supposed to build tension.

“I really hope I get a date with John,” Lucy crooned to the circle of girls. “I’d love to be able to spend some alone time with him.”

“It would be just awful to have to stay here alone.” Stephanie sighed and started to tear up as she talked. But as far as Sherlock could tell, none of it was genuine. “I mean, just awful.”

“How can we show him who we are without a one-on-one date?” Anna asked, quietly.  He had made observations concerning her earlier: mousy, fairly conservative in dress, calluses on her finger tips, but not her hands — signs of typing. Presents herself well, but doesn’t stand out. Probably a secretary. Also, a romantic. She was fawning just a bit too much for Sherlock’s tastes.

Actually, she sort of reminded him of Molly. He missed the morgue.

“John isn’t the type to eliminate to someone without at least giving them a chance,” Sarah commented, from her seat just outside of the couch circle. Sherlock was sitting on the other chair, across the room from her, eyes closed and fingers steepled. “He seemed like a fair man.”

“He is, he totally is,” Laura gushed. “He’s so incredibly sweet.”

A lot of girls started nodding with big infatuated smiles. Sherlock had liked John, but he didn’t understand the level of enamourment some of these girls were showing. A lot of them were faking; he could tell that. But the three or four who weren’t were absolutely mystifying. It also pointed out the weakest personalities to him. Easily manipulated targets. If he ever needed to get something done, he knew who to ask.

“Are you excited, Sherlock?” Laura asked, obviously trying to include him. He wasn’t interested.

“I assume it would be less boring than this.” He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “In that sense, I suppose I’m looking forward to it.”

Half the girls looked offended.

“What about John?” Anna squeaked. He was actually somewhat impressed that she had managed to question him. The incredulous meekness almost seemed brave coming from her.

“He seems nice enough, but at this point I barely know the man. I could hardly have developed feelings for him so quickly.” The hush that followed was heavy. Now his eyes were open. He had a feeling he had said something wrong.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Lucy said in shock. She looked indignant and livid. Interesting. “Really?”

He expected a fight. He could almost feel it coming. She obviously thought that her love for John was perfect and special and true, rather than an imaginary bond built on first impressions and desperation. He couldn’t wait to shatter her little illusions. It would be a great cure for his boredom.

“I’m sure Sherlock doesn’t mean to devalue our feelings,” Cecelia said, swooping in to diffuse the situation. Bah. So much for his fun.

“I simply don’t need to justify my own lack of fawning,” he proclaimed. “Interpret that how you will.”

Lucy bristled, but didn’t respond.

~

“I can’t believe he said that,” Lucy fumed to a confessional. “So my love isn’t real because it’s too early? I’ve never felt this way before, but it can’t be love, _nooooo_.”

She made a nasty face to the camera.

“What a pretentious wanker.”

~

“What the hell is that dick here for, again?” Adele asked. “I mean, is he even trying to get to know John? He certainly isn’t endearing himself to the rest of us.”

~

“He’s kind of mean,” Anna muttered softly. “He’s mysterious, though, so maybe we’re not seeing everything. It would be really romantic if he was just trying to hide his love.”

~

“What can I do for you, John?” Steve asked cheerfully, holding the door ajar just enough to lean on it. John never really felt comfortable around the man, even after several months of conversation and negotiations. It always felt like he was being tricked into doing something he would ultimately regret.

Which, really, was exactly what he figured this experience could very well be.

“Well, two things really,” John answered politely, hovering awkwardly in the hall. “Firstly, I’d like permission to make a phone call later on.”

“To whom?” The sharpness in his voice was disguised with a slow and forced cheery tone. But John heard it nonetheless.

“Some friends of mine in the army. They’re on the frontlines, so I don’t think giving them a ring will destroy your potential market.” John watched Steve mull his argument over. He really wanted this call. Geoff and Paul would be dying for an update, and he missed the boys. They had been his only human connection for months, and going several weeks without talking to them much was going to be hard.

It felt like he was losing touch with the only bit of reality he had left.

“Alright,” Steve agreed, finally. “But one of the film crew has to be there, and you’ll need to wait until next week, when we have a bit more time.”

“Agreed,” John said, flooding with relief. Having a crew member watch him talk on the phone was awkward, but acceptable. He had agreed to let them monitor his conversations, after all. Part of the confidentiality contract.

“What’s next?” Steve pushed. John gathered up a bit of courage.

“Sherlock, actually.” He tried to frown sternly, and thought he was doing an okay job of it. There wasn’t much to say for his intimidation factor, though. Steve just kept up his fake smile. “I think it would be more or less polite to ask my sexual preference before setting me up with a man.”

“Sherlock is a very special case,” Steve replied, smile growing wider and shark-like. “His application came from a very important source and was impossible to ignore. Besides — you could have rejected him immediately if you wanted.”

Steve had hit the nail on the head. John _could_ have rejected Sherlock. And didn’t. Because he was interesting and intriguing and alluring. And John felt like he should be defensive about that fact, because he _didn’t_ consider himself to be gay.

But he wanted to know more about Sherlock.

And that, was perhaps the most worrisome part of this. Not that they had surprised him with a male candidate, but the fact that John genuinely wanted to get to know this male candidate and to talk to him more. In a romantic setting, even, where the main goal was to build a romantic relationship. Rightfully speaking, he should be questioning his sexuality and panicking. But when it came to Sherlock, he didn’t care what the venue was, as long as he got to talk to the other man. That in itself was going to take a headache of time to think about.

“Can I simply request that you inform me of anything that major, next time?” His formal speech pattern was left over from the army. It’s hard to get rid of quirks like that, once you’ve developed them. And Steve was definitely his superior officer in this situation.

“I’ll be sure to do just that.” The smile said otherwise.

~

Dave stepped into the room, dressed in his neat suit and his disgusting smile. He had an invitation in hand. Much to the dismay of Sherlock’s ears, the girls started shrieking with excitement.

“Ladies, an invitation for you.” He placed it gently on the table then wisely disappeared out the door. Sherlock may have glanced at that same door with intense longing. But he wasn’t about to admit that.

“Eeeeeeeeee!” Amanda squealed, rushing for the invite. She tottered a little unsteadily in her ridiculously inappropriate shoes. “I’ll open it!”

A couple of the girls who had jumped up, sat back down, disappointed. Amanda just flipped open the folded note and ignored them. The tension was palpable.

“Sarah,” she read dramatically after a long pause. Sarah’s eyebrows shot up. “Let’s get outdoorsy.”

Ugh. Awful, awful riddle. Could they get more obvious and simplistic? The actual text might only be vague, but if you factor in location and time frame, as well as John’s physical limits, it was a pretty easy guess. They were probably going for a walk or bike ride — possibly both — in the most picturesque area they could find. Likely the islands. What else do you do in Ireland?

 Sherlock was judging the production’s writers while the girls were busy congratulating Sarah. Most of them had swarmed around her and were cooing about how jealous they were and how lucky she was and how incredibly amazing tomorrow was going to be for her. There was the token over-dramatic attention grabbing — “Oh my god, I might die of envy!” — but far more interesting for Sherlock were the few girls that stomped off. Oh, jealousy amongst the throng, how he welcomed it. Hopefully they all held grudges.

He didn’t bother to congratulate her on the way back to his room.

~

“I’m surprised and flattered.” Sarah’s smile was completely genuine. She was honestly shocked that she had been John’s first choice. “I’m really looking forward to spending time with him.”

~

“It’s fine with me,” Tara said, flipping her hair. “She’s as fake as a cardboard pin-up anyway, and I’m sure John will see that tomorrow.”

She smiled fiercely and added, “Besides, she’s not even pretty. No sense for John to lower his standards to _her_.”

That was the attitude that kept the other girls from talking to her.

~

“It’s great for Sarah. She seems very nice,” Rachel cried at the camera. “I just wish it was me. I want this so badly. There’s so much drama in this place that I can’t wait to talk to him.”

~

John was waiting nervously by the boat the next day when Sarah drove up and got out of the car. It was windy, but fortunately sunny, and fairly warm. He really was hoping it would stay that way. It’s hard to make a good impression in the rain.

Sarah had dressed reasonably, thankfully. Pretty, but sensible, with her hair pulled back and a pair of loose trousers rather than a skirt. That sensibility was something John really appreciated. He had been on too many dates where the lady he was meeting showed up in four-inch heels and a miniskirt, no matter where they were going. Sarah being prepared made her even prettier in John’s eyes.

They got on the boat just in time, and settled in for the short ferry ride. Sarah seemed excited, which made him happy. In fact, it gave him a bit of confidence that he had been sorely lacking. Choosing locations for dates had been nerve-wracking and somewhat ridiculous; choosing which girl to bring on what date was going to be equally stressful. The fact that his very first date seemed to be a good choice of location relieved a lot of pressure, and John found himself relaxing into the conversation.

“I haven’t been to the Aran Islands since I was a little girl,” she was reminiscing. “My mother used to love them, but my father hated Ireland. It’s nice to be back.”

“I’ve actually never been before,” John confessed. They were both leaning on the edge of boat, just watching the water run beneath them. Sarah was standing with her hip pressed to his. It was comfortable. Natural. Like they knew where exactly to stand when they were next to each other.

“You’ll love it, I think,” she smiled as she talked. “Anyone with an appreciation for nature does.”

“Well, I certainly have that,” John chuckled. Anything that wasn’t a sand dune was gorgeous in his eyes. Grass is amazingly beautiful. It only takes a few days in the desert to learn just how beautiful it is.

“I’m glad you brought me.” Sarah was misty-eyed. For a moment, he thought she’d start to cry. Instead, she spoke softly.

“Thank you. This will be a perfect date.”

He thought so too.

~

“There wasn’t a lot of thought that went in to picking this spot,” John admitted to the camera. He really hadn’t thought much about first date locations, just picked a few spots and hoped he could make them interesting. “I just thought it would be a nice place for a date.”

He smiled wistfully. “I’m so glad it means something to Sarah. I know I’ll enjoy it. The important thing is that she does too.”

~

The girls in the house were fuming and Sherlock had a front row seat. He loved it. It was this kind of tension that built grudges and lead to murders and assault and all kinds of delicious crimes. He didn’t think that any of these insipid women had the backbone to murder each other, unfortunately. Most of them were just hiding insecurities with anger. But he could pretend.

Besides, it was hilariously fun to watch their frustrations build. Especially when he could participate. The piece of fish in the couch — dropped by a careless diner last night — was currently helping him determine which of the girls were sensitive to scents. It’s always useful to fill one’s artillery with as much ammunition as possible, in case a situation arises. And really? He was bored out of his mind. Taking note of group dynamics and individual reactions was better than watching Jeremy Kyle _again_.

It’s just too bad he had to be so careful around the cameras. Otherwise he might set up some interactive experiments of his own devise, rather than relying on opportunity to present itself.

“What is that smell?!” Stacy had been the most vocal complainer so far. Her eyes started watering as the day progressed and her inhaler had made an appearance. Definitely severe asthma, and probably a very strong allergy to seafood. Which explained why she’d sat far away from anyone who was even eating fish last night. If someone wanted to kill her it would be an easy job to cover up.

“I still don’t smell it!” Rachel called back. Deadened sense of smell, but no evidence of slovenliness. Neat clothes, manicured but short nails, high-end hair dye and salon-styled hair, all pointing to the fact that she made decent wages. Hands were strong, though, and with an even strength, meaning she wasn’t doing trade work. Also, she obviously had some arm strength, judging by her bicep definition. Worked with her hands, obviously — but not so much that her nails would chip — and had to do quite a lot of lifting. Of something soft, otherwise the chipping nails would become an issue again. Probably some form of nurse work — lifting bodies and handling equipment — likely a care-taking position. Hospitals don’t smell like rotting fish — but someone’s house? Maybe.

“That’s because you’re a senseless idiot,” Tara snarled at Rachel. Someone got testy when their perfect surroundings weren’t so perfect. “If you can’t smell that god-awful stench, something is wrong with your nose.”

She wasn’t the most vocal, but Tara was definitely the most abrasive complainer. Stacy might have been whining loudly, but Tara threw the insults. And they had been getting nastier and less subtle as the day wore on.

Rachel looked like she was going to cry, but she held firm. “There’s nothing wrong with my nose. I just don’t happen to whine about stench when everything doesn’t smell exactly like roses.”

“Even the faggot can smell it,” Tara threw out. Sherlock ignored her, but Jennifer didn’t.

“You should really keep your disgusting homophobia to yourself,” she snapped, looking infuriated. “Sherlock, try to ignore the psychotic bitch.”

Rachel, happy to be out of the line of fire, shuffled towards her bedroom. Sherlock smiled.

“I will definitely be ignoring her. I don’t usually acknowledge idiocy of any form, much less someone so entrenched in it.” Tara went red, spitting mad. Perfect.

“At least I don’t take it in the ass,” Tara growled, stalking away. “I don’t need to put up with this crap.”

“You get what you give!” Jennifer called happily after her, making her way over to Sherlock’s chair. “Really, though. Don’t let her get to you. She’s fucking crazy.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. It was interesting to have someone come to his rescue. And he decided he might like having _someone_ in this place that didn’t appear to hate him entirely. However, he was still leery of a potential hidden motive for this friendliness. Trusting strangers — especially in this situation — was for the naïve. “Thank you, though.”

Jennifer smiled. “No problem. I don’t want my kid growing up in a world where people like that get away with saying whatever they want.”

Anna walked in and stopped abruptly, wrinkling her nose. “What is that smell?”

A few people shrugged from their seats. Andrea and Jennifer rolled their eyes.

“I dunno, but it’s disgusting,” Lucy chimed in.

“Fuck it, I’m calling housekeeping,” Andrea snapped, stalking over to the phone. “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe this many grown women would just sit around and complain without doing something.”

Damn it. Sherlock went back to pretending to read in the chair he considered ‘his,’ while listening to the conversation with housekeeping. He’d just have to wait for the next floorshow to present itself.

~

“Who would put a piece of fish in our couch?” Stacy screeched. “That’s just disgusting and rude. It’s awful what some of these girls will do to dishearten the rest of us.”

She looked red-eyed, but that could have been from the allergies.

~

“Really?” Andrea whined to her confessional. “Really? There are seventeen of us and I’m the only person who thought about fixing it? I don’t really care who did it. All that matters is that we get it fixed.”

She shook her head and pulled a very sour face before leaning in.

“I wish they would all stop being such whiny princesses.”

~

“This is gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous,” John babbled. He was grinning ear to ear. “I mean, I know you told me, but it really is. I’ve never seen so much green.”

Sarah was sitting quietly beside him, and just nudged his arm and pointed instead of answering. On the hills above was a white flock of sheep, wandering through the countryside. John honestly couldn’t think of anything more picturesque. They had rented bikes to sightsee around the island, and this was their halfway stop. Complete with picnic gear and a lunch packed and delivered by the studio, they had been sprawled in the grass, surrounded by incredibly lush, green, vibrant hills for over an hour. The conversation was dying into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. John doubted he’d ever been so comfortable on a date.

And when Sarah rested her head on his shoulder to watch the sheep meander by, he felt completely at peace.

~

“You do realize that they’ve taken home the wrong baby, don’t you?” Sherlock commented without looking up from his book. Three girls just glared at him from the couch. Apparently spoiling the very predictable soap opera was not a good idea.

“How about the fact that she’s going to sleep with her sister’s husband? They’ve built that up enough to be obvious.” If he had to watch daytime television, it could at least be something interesting or he could get something out of it. The populace may accuse Jeremy Kyle of being utterly pointless, but it was good for practicing recognition of hereditary bone structure and family resemblance, as well as making a perfect study of lower class relationship dynamics — which is exactly where the most crime happens. Soap operas contained within them no advantages whatsoever, except if you happened to be old and delusional and had developed the belief that they constituted classic entertainment.

“Will you shut up?” Laura snapped. “Go somewhere else if you find our show so boring.”

Nevermind. You could also be young and delusional.

“Fine.” He didn’t really want to argue. He just wanted something to do.

Standing up did help stretch out his stiffened muscles. Maybe he’d go for a walk around the guest facilities. He couldn’t leave the complex, but he wasn’t confined to this room for today. Perhaps he could find something to do...or for an experiment?

He couldn’t help one last thing, though, as he walked out the door.

“Also, Samantha’s husband is going to die of cancer in about three episodes, and then she’ll start dating the doctor, much to the dismay of her children.”

They all simultaneously let out a groan.

~

They had settled in to a quaint restaurant for dinner, sitting at a table by the window. The studio had made sure the restaurant was empty except for them. If John hadn’t been enjoying himself so much, he would have found the atmosphere absolutely eerie.

Fortunately, Sarah was easy to talk to.

“...I do really love the work,” she was saying. “It’s a nice atmosphere, and the patients aren’t terrible.”

“I remember it being nice to work in London,” John reminisced between bites of dessert. “I’m not sure how long it’s been since I’ve actually done just that.”

“I’m sure it’ll be a good transition.” Sarah was smiling sweetly around her cup of tea. John was smiling stupidly, but he hadn’t realized it. He probably wouldn’t. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy being in London again.”

John wasn’t so sure. He didn’t actually know what he would do in London. It had been too long since he was a civilian. Could he even handle a normal job? Or a normal schedule? Being normal might be impossible now. But then again, sitting, having a tea after dinner with Sarah was making him feel like he remembered ‘normal.’ It was soothing, like balm on a wound. To have anyone make him feel this way was a huge accomplishment.

And then he realized that he was still on a show that was centred around staging false romances. He really wasn’t as normal as he thought he was. But it felt so much better than everything had a few months ago.

“I hope I do enjoy it,” he replied, quietly. “Being here with you makes me think that I might be able to.”

She smiled so incredibly sweetly, her face radiating with happiness. “I’m glad I could do that for you. It’s been a perfect day.”

The rose had been sitting on the table in front of them the whole time. He picked it up with shaking fingers and offered it to her.

“Um, I’ve really enjoyed today, as well.” John shifted in seat, feeling himself start to sweat slightly. This was the first time out of many that he would have to go through this stupid ritual. “And, I just wanted to say thank you. And, ah, will you accept this rose?”

Sarah chuckled while reaching out for the flower. “Of course, John. Thank you.”

He silently watched as she put the rose beside her plate and smiled up at him.  John was suddenly aware of Sarah’s closeness. And the quiet. And the beautiful, romantic atmosphere, and her beautiful loving smile. Everything in him was bubbling with happiness and how amazing his first real date had been. Sarah had been a wonderful first choice. She made him feel so much at ease, like his leg and his arm and his PTSD were all just incidental and not life-shattering. Sitting there, close to her, he couldn’t help but lean in and kiss her. Sweet, gentle, and slow — perfect.

And awful. So, _so_ painfully awful.

He liked Sarah. A lot. He respected her as a person. Everything on this incredibly perfect date had been easy and natural and comfortable. There was no discomfort in even the silences. So how was he going to sit there and kiss her and pretend that he wouldn’t have to kiss possibly all seventeen girls and Sherlock over the next two days?

John Watson may not be naïve, but that certainly didn’t mean that he felt good about this situation. He wasn’t a cheater and he wasn’t a playboy, no matter how well he got on with women. Dating more than one girl was not something he could enjoy and be proud of.

And it hurt that his first kiss with Sarah was also his first non-exclusive relationship.

~

“It was perfect.” John’s smile had a heavy hint of a subtle melancholy. “I can definitely see myself with her for a long time. Sarah is great.”

~

“Everything was so amazing,” Sarah sighed. “He’s charming and handsome and sweet. I don’t think it gets better than this.”

~

“OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!” Ear-piercing shrieks cut through the room as, sadly, more than one person started screaming. Sherlock was just glad that the delivered invitation meant that he could leave soon. He wouldn’t have to fight for the telly in his room.

“Jennifer, _Lucy_ , Rachel, Adele, Ellen,” Lucy read, clutching the paper to her chest, “Laura, Amelia, Tara, Andrea, and Sherlock. Let’s go down to the farm together. OH MY GOD!”

“What do you think we’re doing?” Laura squealed, clustered around Lucy, like almost all the other girls. “Do you think we’re going to go see an exhibit?”

Ugh, Sheep. Probably herding or shearing, Sherlock surmised. There weren’t many other kinds of farms around this area.

“I dunno. Could be anything.” Amelia was smiling contentedly.

Sherlock got up to leave, brushing past a few women in his quest for escape.

“You spoil the fun, faggot.” The whisper came from behind him, and Sherlock didn’t have to look to know it was Tara. “It’d be better if you didn’t come.”

He rolled his eyes and kept walking. There was no point acknowledging her. The fight from earlier had only seemed to encourage her. And really, he had more important matters to attend to.

Amanda, however, cut him off before he got to his room.

“I guess we won’t be seeing each other tomorrow,” she said with a sigh, standing a little too close for Sherlock’s comfort. Her high heels always made her seem precarious, and Sherlock wasn’t about to compensate for her lack of balance. “Maybe we should spend a bit of time together, get to know each other a bit better?”

Sherlock shifted away and looked longingly at his door. He was not making friends with Amanda, and he did _not_ want to know her any better. She wasn’t the intelligent kind of stripper. “We spent the whole day in the common room together, and barely said a word to each other.”

“Common room time isn’t quality time,” she purred. If Sherlock had bothered to look over, he would have seen her batting her eyelashes. Instead, he just walked away.

“That’s nice. I have matters to attend to.”

Amanda watched him leave with a sigh and a pout. Sherlock could feel his headache setting in. He wasn’t ready for tomorrow. It was terrifying to not be prepared. And he wasn’t really alright. Between Amanda and Tara, he was slowly suspecting that his life was sinking into a minor realm of hell. He didn’t know what was going on with one of them, and the other one was out to make his life miserable.

There was only one thing he could do right now, and it had to be done before he saw John tomorrow.

~

“I’m so excited that he’s invited me. I mean, I’m not entirely sure why he’s invited Sherlock,” Rachel said to the camera. “It’s kind of rude to be spending to so much time with him so early on.”

She looked questioningly at the camera.

“Don’t you agree?”

~

“It’s great to be invited out,” Amelia giggled. “I’m really excited to get to know John better. I mean, that’s why we’re all here, yeah?”

~

“Sherlock just doesn’t get it,” Amanda said with a sigh. “That man isn’t gay, though. I think he just needs a push to figure out what he likes.”

~

It was dark. It was quiet. There was probably a camera down the hall; Sherlock didn’t really care. This had to be done, and he’d been steeling himself since John had gotten back twenty minutes ago. His entire suitcase had been turned inside out and repacked. There was nothing that could work in this atmosphere. Nothing. He didn’t know why he was here or what he expected to get out of it and that repacked suitcase was taunting him.

So he knocked on the door. No going back now.

“Sherlock?” John exclaimed as he pulled the door back. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

Why did John always have to be so genuine and concerned? Why? It made doing things so much harder. Sherlock was already starting to feel the guilt settle in, just for making him worried.

“Ah, John.” He tried not to look him in the eyes. This was so awkward. “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, no, Sherlock...” John’s concern morphed in to a slight panic, and Sherlock knew he hadn’t understood, yet.

“It’s alright.” Why did he feel the need to be reassuring? He usually liked people to revel in their false assumptions. But John’s fear was so honest he didn’t have the heart to scare him anymore. Which was odd. Sherlock _never_ had a heart, much less for someone else. Caring even that slight amount was unusual for him. “I’m completely unprepared to deal with sheep, is all.”

John’s frown twisted into confusion. Sherlock sighed and resigned himself to spelling it out for the other man.

“I simply need to borrow a shirt. I have a pair of trousers that should work, but I don’t think silk button-ups are going to go well with sheep shearing.” Seeing Sherlock embarrassed but composed was a very interesting experience. He stood casually and avoided eye contact, glancing up hopefully as he finished. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course,” John exclaimed, relieved. Sherlock wasn’t leaving. This was good. He supposed it shouldn’t matter quite so much, but it did. He didn’t want Sherlock to leave yet. And he was going to have to deal with that fact someday. But not now. He limped backwards with a bit of a shuffle, making room for another person. “I probably have a suitable shirt around here somewhere.”

He rummaged through a drawer for a minute and then paused and looked up sharply. Sherlock met his gaze with a quizzical eyebrow. “How did you know it was sheep shearing tomorrow?”

“Those pathetic riddles.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose thinking about it. John went back to rummaging while listening. “We’re going to a farm, in Ireland. What is Ireland famous for? Sheep. These productions love to explore typical regional stereotypes, and sheep shearing is definitely it. Plus it’s an activity that we can compete at, which I gather from the women is usually a part of group dates.”

“Ha, yeah, the producers love this kind of stuff,” John laughed and stood up, clutching a shirt. He was smiling, which Sherlock wasn’t expecting. Wasn’t he supposed to be angry at him for guessing the surprise? “Great job, though. I doubt many of the girls figured it out.” He glanced sheepishly at the shirt he was holding. “You’re a lot taller than me. Try this on before you go?”

Examining the shirt, Sherlock handed it back.

“Can you find a shirt that doesn’t have army logos on it? I’d like to not be obvious if possible. The girls may conceivably hurt me.”

John’s turn to be embarrassed. He immediately grabbed a different shirt. “This one?”

“I’ll try it. Also, what size are your feet?”

“Eight and a half. Why?”

Sherlock frowned and turned to face the wall before unbuttoning his shirt. That wasn’t good at all. Why did John’s feet have to be so small?

“Never mind. It’s not important.” John got a glimpse of pale skin on a thin torso as Sherlock gracefully pulled on the T-shirt. He felt himself flush a bit at the other man’s nudity. Seeing each other shirtless had happened constantly in the army. Somehow that was far different than seeing Sherlock shirtless. He wasn’t so much aroused as he was getting the sense that he was somehow intruding.

He only got a moment to wonder if that was because he was interested in what Sherlock looked like underneath the layers of clothing or if it was just the juxtaposition of civilian activities and a soldier’s mind.

Then Sherlock spun around, T-shirt on, and midriff bare. John muffled a snort of laughter.

“Do you maybe have something longer?” Sherlock asked, only slightly embarrassed. John’s laughter hadn’t made him ashamed, like he had expected. The whole thing was too light-hearted for him to be uncomfortable.  That was quite something, since he usually only exposed this amount of skin in his room with the door locked...and all the lights off. Self-esteem never had been his strong suit. But John didn’t judge, and he found himself relaxing into that knowledge.

“I think so,” John said giggling, already back at the drawer. “How about this one?”

Sherlock caught the plaid tangle and switched shirts quickly, not bothering to turn this time. This one was better — a short-sleeved, casual button-up — but far too tight. Any movement was restricted, and he looked a gay farmer. Not really all that flattering and yet somehow appropriate.

John was staring.

“You’re so thin,” John muttered, looking concerned. At least, concerned and a little confused. Like he couldn’t understand where Sherlock’s missing flesh had gone. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I apologize for not being as...muscular as you expected?” Sherlock’s turn for confusion. He wasn’t used to anyone but Mrs. Hudson giving him the ‘why are you not eating’ stare. To have a man he barely knew do so was odd, to say the least. And yet, somehow, he expected that. This was the kind of person John Watson was. He cared about strangers. Sherlock couldn’t say he understood the feeling.

“No, no. I just hope they feed you well during this thing.” John started rummaging again, trying to keep his mother-hen side hidden. And failing. He shouldn’t be mothering Sherlock. Not this early on. Not when he still didn’t even know how he felt on the matter. “You’re just bordering on unhealthy.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as John passed the next shirt over. He started to change. “Excessive eating slows the brain. And I never have been one for ‘working out.’”

He didn’t know why he felt the need to defend himself. Normally he just told people something along the lines of ‘Piss off’ — or ‘Thank you,’ if he were feeling less irritable that day. John didn’t stir the same anger that normally would flare. Maybe because his comments were genuine.

“That one fits!” John exclaimed about Sherlock’s most recent shirt. Almost celebratory. He probably wanted to get rid of him now. It was getting late, after all, and there was a strange man he barely knew in his room. Sherlock couldn’t blame him. “I mean, the sleeves are a tad short, but it can definitely go in the possibilities pile.”

Pile? John was digging for other shirts, and was very obviously not throwing him out just yet. Interesting. Not only did John genuinely care about strangers, he also liked Sherlock enough to help him out and do more than the bare minimum required. For no apparent reason. No one does anything without reason. It’s against human nature. But John did.

Sherlock couldn’t help but conclude that John Watson was certainly an unusual man.

The shirt did indeed fit, though the sleeves were several inches short. The actual shirt was quite long, so it covered Sherlock’s middle and fit around the chest. Hmm, getting closer.

~

“I had to borrow some sunblock as well,” Sherlock recounted to his confessional. “Unfortunately, I’m very sensitive to the sun. But the honest tragedy is that John’s feet aren’t the right size.”

~

It really was awkward to stand in a field wearing a pair of dress shoes. Comfortable loafers, yes, but still far dressier than they should have been. Any indication of being ill-prepared really stung. His public image was everything; being caught off-guard was one of the worst things to happen in a casual setting. Even something so small was an indication of disorganization — a flaw that could be taken advantage of. Social interaction was a war between the self and the other, more so in this case. And he had just lost one battle.

At least John’s shirt had fit. They had gone through quite a few to find the right one. It had been settled that he would borrow a casual long-sleeve T-shirt that was long enough in the torso to not be obvious. The sleeves were still short, though, and Sherlock had subtly rolled them to the elbow to hide this fact. If all went well his only obvious mistake would be the fact that he didn’t own sneakers.

They had toured the facilities earlier. It actually had been rather boring, but most of the girls oooed and ahhhed and giggled over sheep anyway. Insipid. Obviously trying to impress John. Most of them probably hated sheep as much as Sherlock did.

Though he did make note of the jumpers John bought from the gift shop. What man would want four Irish jumpers? Excluding someone who was above the age of sixty.

The interesting part hadn’t started until they got out on to the field. Set up for their leisure were a dozen sheep, two pens, a podium, and all the tools for sheep shearing: baskets for catching the wool, shears, and harnesses. The sheep also seemed a little dazed and sluggish. Sherlock watched as one nuzzled a tuft of grass without managing to actually bite it.

So they had drugged the sheep. Not enough to completely sedate them, but enough to make them malleable. Either the farmers or the producers really had no faith in their participants. Last time he checked, sheep weren’t exactly on the ‘animals that might kill you’ list.

John had immediately taken to the podium, and the rest of them started to gather around him.

“So, I guess everyone’s figured this challenge out, yeah?” John smiled as he talked. He was surprisingly good at public speaking. “We’re going to split all ten of you into two teams which means you get six sheep to five of you. What each team has to do is herd their sheep into their pens...”

John waved at the field.

“And then you’ll work together and shear two of your sheep. First team done is the winner.”

Lucy’s hand shot up.

“Can I be on your team?” she asked. Sherlock restrained the urge to slap her, but John just smiled.

“I’m going to be judging. Whoever does the best job at helping their team will get a rose later tonight.” He waved the sudden whispering into silence. “Should we split you up now?”

~

“Being in the army is almost entirely about teamwork,” John confessed to the camera. “It’s really important to be able to work together when you need to, even if you don’t necessarily like each other. It’s a hard lesson to learn, too.”

There was an oddly wistful tone to his voice.

“That’s why I wanted to see how well the girls could work together. This kind of rivalry is intense, and I want to see who can overcome it.”

He smiled disarmingly.

“Also, who doesn’t like sheep?”

~

“I hate sheep.” Ellen certainly didn’t look pleased. “I had to work on a farm for a few years when I was younger, and the smell of them could kill a horse.”

Her face showed exactly how disgusted she was.

“I am not looking forward to touching one.”

~

“Sheep are cute,” Adele said with a forced smile, “but I’m not really sure about this shearing thing. I’m a vegetarian. I know it’s not meat, but something about making an animal sit still while I cut all its hair off isn’t sitting quite right.”

The smile faded, awkwardly.

~

Sherlock had pulled a blue stick from the hat. Nothing was wrong with that; blue is a nice enough colour and it was a good way to randomize teams. The problem was his teammates. The two women he had so far managed to not alienate — Jennifer and Andrea — were on the opposite side. His team consisted of Tara, Lucy, Rachel, Laura, and himself. All of whom he was entirely certain hated him, on one level or another. Plus, they seemed to have unrealistic expectations of masculinity, which always bothered him.

“You’re the guy so we should have an advantage with you,” Lucy had more or less commanded him. “Pull your weight and we should win no problem.”

“Don’t put too much pressure on him,” Tara chided her. The false sweetness tasted sharper than aspartame. “He couldn’t keep up his girlish figure if he had muscles.”

“Yes, of course. Let us get as stereotypical as possible,” Sherlock said dryly. He really didn’t want to be here anymore. “Because there aren’t more creative ways to be nasty to each other.”

“We’re not going to be nasty,” Lucy snapped. “We don’t have time for that.”

The whistle blew and John called for them to line up.

“Everyone ready?” He half-yelled from his podium. Each team had their sheep in front of them. “Alright, clock starts in three, two...ONE!”

And off they went. Sherlock felt a bit stupid as he and his team members formed a little half circle around the lazily moving sheep. They had to physically push them to get the sheep to move quicker and that was causing a mess too. They galloped straight, missing the turn to the gate, forcing all five of them to scramble to cover the flanks of their herd. It was madness. Very smelly, sheepy madness.

They were too focused on their own temporarily silent displeasure to notice the other team. Amelia had taken charge fairly naturally and was calmly directing each of them.

“Watch that one on the left, Adele!” she called as she gently pushed the sheep nearest to her into a slow trot. “He’s gonna bolt if we’re not careful! Keep it up, ladies!”

As the other team madly tried to correct their herd’s direction, Team Amelia’s sheep were slowly filtering into their pen. All except for one. Despite her warnings, the sheep on the left made a sharp ninety-degree turn to run along the edge of the fence, Adele squealing and jumping out of the way as he came at her.

“Oh for...” Amelia cut herself off. And dodged wildly in front of their rogue sheep. “Keep them going in! I’ll get him!”

The other sheep were managed quickly. Herd animals prefer to stay in the herd, after all. And Amelia had been surprisingly fast and managed to intercept the lone sheep. Jennifer and Andrea left Adele and Ellen to block the gate, putting themselves in the right position to funnel the miscreant back to the others. If that wasn’t great teamwork, John didn’t know what was.

Sadly, due to their rogue, both teams got their herds into the pens at almost the same time. The competition was going to be tough.

John kind of wished he could hear what they were saying.

“MOVE! WHY DON’T YOU MOVE?” Sherlock screamed at the women, while holding a sheep on its back, as tightly as he could. Laura had grabbed the other end, keeping the sheep’s legs in a death grip as Tara, Lucy, and Rachel took delicate snips of wool off the animal. “You are not going to hurt its feelings if you cut the hair unevenly!”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, faggot,” Tara snarled, clearly out of patience. “You can stick your dick in it later — we’re going as fast as we can.”

“Homosexuality and bestiality are not the same thing, if that was what you were going for,” Sherlock snapped back. “Keep your commentary to yourself. We have enough stress without you.”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Laura gritted. “This is not the time for your personal grudge match. And Rachel, if you’re not going to cut faster, take over from Sherlock or me.”

Rachel picked up speed, but she was definitely burgeoning on tears. Sherlock didn’t even care.

Not like it mattered, because Amelia’s team won, anyway. They somehow had managed to shear two sheep at the same time.

Frustration wasn’t a strong enough word.

~

“WOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” Amelia crowed to the camera. “That was possibly the best thing I’ve done in a long while.”

She tossed her black hair a little, mussing up her already windblown bob.

“I mean, seriously. That was utterly exhilarating.”

~

“We could’ve done better,” Laura grumbled. “The grudge holding is getting a touch ridiculous. I don’t really like Sherlock. Or Tara, or Rachel, for that matter. Lucy’s okay. But I managed to not act like a toddler. What’s their problem?”

~

Tara was too busy fuming to actually form a sentence.

~

“I can’t believe we couldn’t manage to sheer two heavily drugged sheep.” Sherlock had a hand up to his face, trying to hide his absolute humiliation. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more _utterly_ fucking pathetic.”

~

“I think everyone did great,” John proclaimed happily. “Amelia was a fantastic leader, but it was also nice just to be able to see everyone work together. No matter how rough the interaction was.”

~

The restaurant they arrived at was beautiful and empty. It wasn’t as upscale as some of the women had been expecting — just an elegant Irish tavern, with wood paneling on the walls and lush carpets in the dining room. The expense was obviously understated, rather than extravagant. Somehow Sherlock wasn’t surprised at John’s choice.

There was a rose already sitting on the table when they arrived and, as predicted, a few girls started whispering among themselves, very excitedly. Sherlock picked the chair at the end of the table and sat down. John’s chair was square in the middle of the group, and he was easily crowded by women in less than a second. The girls who weren’t fawning over John were ogling the rose like it was a diamond ring.

Sherlock was not in the mood for watching desperate women act like whores. Fortunately, the host walked in right then to explain the concept of ‘alone time on group dates.’

~

John’s very first one-on-one conversation was going badly. He’d made the apparently unforgivable mistake of asking Rachel how everything was among the girls (and Sherlock). She had been alternating between wide-eyed gossip and almost-tears ever since.

“...Adele hasn’t eaten a thing of meat, and the other girls are worried she’s starving herself to be prettier, but she says she’s just a vegetarian.” Rachel had recounted rumours about every woman. Every _single_ woman. It was getting a touch ridiculous. John just wanted to know how bad the inevitable fighting was, not every detail of everyone’s private life. “We found a piece of fish in the couch yesterday, and I’m pretty sure she put it there. Probably trying to hide her eating disorder.”

“I doubt anyone put the fish there on purpose,” John soothed mechanically. “Accidents happen, after all.”

“I know, but, it’s all so dramatic,” she continued, clearly not registering what John had actually said. “I’ve never dealt with so much drama before, and it’s so hard.” She looked like she was about to cry again, so John patted her arm. “And Sherlock makes it all worse.”

That had John’s hackles up. He had sort of been bracing for possible homophobia since Sherlock arrived, without ever having to consciously deal with it. That vague worry came sharply to the forefront.

 “Why?” he asked sharply. She flinched.

“He’s just so abrasive, and he already sticks out, being the only guy, which is totally not fair,” she babbled. “I mean, there are more of us, sure, but, he’s just...he has an advantage.”

“I assure you Sherlock being male doesn’t give him an advantage.” John wasn’t even sure what he was hearing. He wasn’t even gay. How on earth could Sherlock’s presence be unfair? “If anything, it’s the opposite.”

“Well, he could at least try to get along with the rest of us. He talks to us like we’re idiots, he spends most of the day reading, and he’s not really normal. It’s just so hard to have him there and also have him being so...weird.”

Thus far John had not seen anything to label Sherlock as ‘weird.’ Aloof, yes, and a bit abrasive, he could see where that came from. It probably didn’t help that the women were almost certainly not happy to have him there. But reading for entertainment was weird? Or was she just picking on his sexuality? Uncomfortably, John had to remind himself that he wasn’t even sure what that was yet.

 But if it was the latter, John wasn’t about to tolerate that kind of ignorance.

“I think our time’s up,” he said, politely helping her to her feet. “Time to go.”

“Ah! Well, thank you for listening.” She gave him a peck on the mouth, and John felt his stomach settle again. He had to get used to this. Had to. “I’m glad to have someone who cares about how ridiculous this is.”

~

“Oh my gosh, this is ridiculous!” Amanda screamed, clearly not upset about it. “I’m so happy for you, Karen!”

There was a little bit of jumping and screaming and hugging, as the girls back in the hotel celebrated Karen’s invitation. She had gotten a note that said, “Prepare for the royal treatment.” Surprisingly, no one was acting jealous.

~

“I’ll get a chance at the rose ceremony,” Amanda smiled. “Besides, there’s lots of interesting things to do here.”

~

“Well, I’m a bit disappointed,” Cecilia admitted, “but Karen’s been wonderful and I’ll have a chance later. There’s no reason to take it out on her.”

~

“YES!” Amelia threw her arms up, rose clutched tightly in one fist. “VICTORY!”

~

Tara had been glaring daggers at him all night. She’d taken a bit of a break to throw some at Amelia when the Korean girl came back with the rose, but otherwise? It was all Sherlock. If her stares hadn’t been so sharp, someone might have thought she was smitten.

Sherlock wished she could be more subtle. The obviousness bored him. It had been incredibly relieving when John pulled him away for their conversation. At least he would have a break from being eyed.

“So,” John started, filling the beginning of what he hoped would be a less awkward conversation than the last few. Sherlock just looked at him, patiently waiting. “What was it you said you did for a living? Consulting detective?”

“World’s _only_ consulting detective,” Sherlock corrected with a smirk. It seemed that work was definitely a topic of interest. Good. Sherlock always enjoyed talking about his work. It was a relatively safe subject. “When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“But the police don’t consult amateurs.” John found himself more confused, rather than less. Admittedly, he was military and not police, but he had a sense of how these affairs went.

“Obviously. I’m not an amateur.” Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, eyes glittering. “I see what the police do not.”

“What do you mean?” John could feel Sherlock’s excitement, energy coursing through the room. He was so _alive_.

“How well would you say we know each other?” Sherlock queried. Quite the question for their first technical date. John wasn’t quite sure where this conversation was going.

“Not overly well. We’ve talked to each other twice, and I know they gave you a biography that basically said my name and that I was an army doctor. They had me proofread it. Why?”

“Because I know far more about you than you think.” His eyes glittered with a little bit of mischief. “Yes, your out-of-season tan says that you’ve been somewhere warm over the winter, the fact that it ends at your collar and your wrists, suggests that you weren’t there for pleasure, and, of course, your haircut says military. Recently returned because your hair hasn’t grown out and your tan hasn’t faded. That’s easy. You walk with a cane, but don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, which points to the limp being at least partially psychosomatic. A recently returned military man with a psychosomatic limp? The only natural assumption is that you were wounded in action and that the original circumstances of the wound were traumatic. The way you favour your left arm, and the fact that you hold your cane on your right side — the same side as your injured leg — say that the real wound is probably a shoulder wound, possibly with some complications that could cause swelling and hinder movement, judging by the sweaters you bought, presumably to keep your shoulder joints warm.

“Either that or you have an inordinate love for Irish wool. Both are possibilities, I suppose.” Sherlock had gestured at each piece of evidence as he went through his list of amazingly accurate information. John tried to control the look of surprise on his face, but he felt like he was failing. “And I’ve had most of that information and more since the very first night. I am no amateur.”

Flabbergasted wasn’t a good enough word. Looking at Sherlock’s confident expression, he knew it wasn’t a bluff. Plus, every word was right.

“That...was amazing.” It seriously was. The fact that anyone could get so much information from such little details was astonishing.

“Do you think so?” Sherlock parried.

“Of course it was! It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.” John wasn’t sure how Sherlock doubted that.

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock admitted.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

~

By the time the awkward dinner was over, and everyone had gotten back, there wasn’t much more to do than sleep. Running after sheep was far more exhausting than most of the girls could handle, and Sherlock simply didn’t want to talk to them. He had other things to think about.

Like John. And how John didn’t seem to have ulterior motives in any interaction. It was making it very hard for Sherlock to keep his guard up around the doctor. He was honest and open, and seemed to genuinely want to get to know everyone, if he was going to have to talk to them anyway. Sherlock couldn’t think of a single other person he’d met who didn’t talk to people for a reason, including himself. And John had shown some very strong respect by not pressuring Sherlock into a kiss. The detective knew he was supposed to.  The producers must have been hounding him from the first second he got out of that damn limo. The fact that he didn’t — assumedly based on their earlier conversations — was very telling of the kind of man he was.

Either that or he was trying to tell Sherlock that he was uninterested, romantically.

And though Sherlock thought he was okay with that, he didn’t want to leave just yet. He had been expecting a den of easily manipulated bitches and a man that was a lot stupid and a bit shallow. Instead, he’d got John.

At least the den of bitches was just as expected.

~

“I wanted to do something really romantic,” John reminisced. “And there are so many lovely places to go to around here that it was hard to choose. But this was just perfect. I had to book it as soon as I saw it.”

~

“I had no idea what to expect when I got in that car,” Karen gushed. “And then when we got there all I could think was ‘oh my gosh, how lucky am I?’ But really, this will be amazing.”

~

John had brought Karen to a castle. Rented out and decorated, with a full ‘medieval town’ set up behind it for them to enjoy. The town was full of re-enactment actors being paid extra to do what they normally did with more talking and standing around, so everyone seemed to be in a really good mood. Including Karen.

“Just wait until I tell my dad,” she cried, picking up some of the woodcarvings for sale. “He’ll love these. He always used to carve me little birds out of tree branches when I was a kid.”

John watched as she smiled serenely, obviously fond of the memory. The little animal twirled through her fingers, slowly, so she could examine every inch. “Does your father run the vineyard with you?”

“He’s retired,” she said matter-of-factly, not looking up. “He passed it on to me last year before my mother and him split. I got it because my sister’s a twat and he didn’t want mum to take him for half.”

“I’m sorry,” John apologized, a little bit horrified. He didn’t mean to bring up family issues. “It sounds like a bad situation.”

“Nah,” she laughed. Okay, not upset, then. Good. “Mum’s great as long as she doesn’t have to live with my dad. And I love the vineyard. We work better as a family now than we ever did before.”

“Yeah, it’s funny how that happens sometimes.” John wistfully thought of his own dysfunctional family. Karen was more forthcoming than John had expected, and he liked it. It was endearing. “Whereabouts is the vineyard?”

“Surrey. I live there with my dad, now.”

“Absolutely gorgeous area,” John smiled. “I hope I get to see it some time?”

“You definitely will!” Karen lit up. It was obvious that she really loved the place. “Even if I don’t win, stop by anyway.  If you’re going to disappoint me, the least you can do is buy me some of my own wine.”

~

There was a note under his door. A very nasty note. Not the kind one wanted to wake up to in the morning, but Sherlock relished it nonetheless. After all, it gave him something to do.

The note was also very direct:

_Just so you know, a few of us have agreed that you’re causing unnecessary trouble here. John is not gay, and he’s said as much himself, so we don’t know what you’re even doing here. No one likes you, and since John doesn’t either, it’s probably best for your sake if you leave. We’d be happy to help you pack._

_Sincerely,_

_The bachelorettes_

Cute. Very high school. Almost pathetically obvious. Most likely written by Tara, and maybe one or two other girls. But only if she actually had managed to gather any support at all, which was doubtful. She wasn’t exactly nice to the other women, either.

Sherlock grabbed his book on anatomy (he was memorizing major arteries along with the quickest way to reach them) and a piece of tape. He tacked the note up on the front door of the girls’ room, and then settled in to his usual chair.

Exposing the fact that he was being ineffectually bullied would bring out the girls who either wanted to look tolerant or were genuinely horrified by that kind of behaviour. It was an easy way to both cause discord and to make sure that he knew which girls considered themselves his allies, at this point.

It didn’t take long for the note to gain attention. Laura walked by it, then instantly doubled back to read it. She was younger than most of the other girls — college shenanigans were probably still fresh in her mind. Once she started reading, so did a few other girls, and then they started whispering and glancing back at him. Sherlock could make out a few covert ‘oh my gods’ and ‘who?’ coming from the cluster.

He had expected one or two people to come up to him. He hadn’t expected half a dozen to surround him. There was only a minute to wonder if his plan had backfired.

“Sherlock,” Jennifer addressed him, quietly. “I hope you know that note is completely not true. We don’t even know who would write that.”

“Except maybe Tara.” Sherlock was surprised Laura had come over. He knew she didn’t like him. “I mean, yeah, we’re not all best friends. But telling someone to leave? Not okay. You have as much right to be here as we do.”

“Ah, thank you.” Sherlock wasn’t sure what else to say. He was pretty sure he was feeling embarrassment from all the attention.

“Just don’t let it get you down, okay?” Andrea chimed in. “We’re not all complete bitches.”

“I know.” He did know. He knew more than they thought he did. “I appreciate the support. Thank you.”

Well, that was pleasant. It seemed the girls hated bitches more than they hated him. Ironic, really, considering what they had signed up for.

Over the next few hours he had a few more girls come up to him and tell him they weren’t co-writers of the note. Amelia, Cecilia, Anna. Sarah. And then, slightly after the lunch Sherlock had skipped, Tara.

“I don’t know who told you I wrote that note, but I fucking didn’t,” Tara pretty much yelled at him. Extremely defensive. Sign of guilt. “You can stop telling people that.”

“I didn’t say anything about our speculative author,” Sherlock countered. He put his book down. He left it on his lap, though. Best to have something between him and Tara. “I believe assumptions were possibly made based on how obviously you hate me.”

“Of course I fucking hate you — you’re a fame-seeking faggot.” Tara was yelling about six inches from his face. And snarling. “And now you’re a liar too.”

 _Aggressive_ defending of herself, without provision of evidence. Definitely guilty. Despite the unpleasantness of getting spat on, he wasn’t willing to back down. She was so unsubtle it would be a crime _not_ to torment her about it.

“And _you_ ’re a bitch. You’ve proven as much, which is more than you can say about me. You’re also incredibly homophobic, and apparently have the self-esteem of a particularly ugly donkey. Perhaps you should stop making such spectacles, if you don’t want anyone to accuse you of the truth?”

And there it was, her hand flying down to meet his face. Fortunately half-anorexic models were a weaker lot than the people Sherlock usually fought. It was a matter of mere reflexes to stop her hand.

“Fuck you, AIDS boy,” she growled, violently wrenching her arm away from his grip. “I hope someone kills you on the side of a road.”

“I see you’ve reached the bottom of your stereotypical insult bag,” Sherlock retorted, settling back into his chair. “May I go back to my book now?”

“Fuck you.”

Violently, she turned away and started stalking back to her room. Almost everyone else was just staring.

“Fuck you too!” Sherlock called after her, cheerily.

~

They were decked out in cheesy capes and fake crowns when they entered the dining room. Hundreds of candles were scattered around the hall, with a beautiful oak table set up just for them, complete with a bouquet of flowers and gorgeous cloths draped over the chairs and table. After a day of wandering through castle rooms, talking to each other about trivial matters, and meandering through the castle’s town, they were both exhausted. But the breathtaking sight of dinner in a palace was well worth it. Karen’s jaw dropped.

“You did not. Oh my God, you did not.” John was pleased at her flabbergasted exclamations. Apparently castle dinners were as romantic as he thought they were. “This is all for us?”

“I thought it would be a nice way to end the day,” he smiled, blushing. It really had been a great day. Like something out of _Lord of the Rings_. “Let me get you a chair.”

He led her to one of the seats, and pulled it out while she sat down. Then, reaching to the bouquet, he pulled out the only rose amid the other flowers.

Dropping to one knee beside her and holding out the rose, he addressed her. “My lady, will you accept this rose?”

Karen squealed. He knew she’d like that. “Of course. Definitely. Oh my gosh, yes.”

Before grabbing the rose, she kissed him long and hard. It was a great kiss. And John must be getting used to this kissing many girls thing because, for once, his stomach didn’t betray him.

~

“That was amazing,” John beamed. “Utterly so. I guess my romantic radar still works. I almost wish I could do this again.”

~

“Drama today was ridiculous,” Stacy grumbled. “I cannot fucking believe some people. Hello? Can’t we just keep our mouths shut and our thoughts to ourselves? Like adults?”

~

“I tried to cheer him up some, but I guess he didn’t feel that bad,” Amanda sighed. “I mean, one of these days I’m hoping to have two birds eating out of my hand. If you know what I mean. But so far I’ve only got to spend time with Sherlock.”

Her face lit up a bit.

“Though tall, dark, and mysterious _is_ totally my type.”

~

The cocktail party had begun fairly quietly. Sherlock had spent the evening off to the side, much like he had spent the day. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle the support most of the girls had given him, and he took the time to think. There was a certainty that some of the girls simply wanted to appear nicer than they were. That couldn’t account for that many comments, though, could it? For a dozen people to go out of their way to make sure he knew they didn’t want him to leave...Well, it seemed a bit excessive.

Regardless, Sherlock had been feeling out of his depth. People’s emotions made them do odd things, and he currently didn’t know why these emotions were making the women so sympathetic to him. He just hoped it wasn’t motivated by pity. He didn’t need anyone’s pity. He just wanted to stand back and observe.

“Hey handsome, how ya feeling?” Amanda crooned as she came over. She wasn’t faking drunkenness tonight.

“Fine, thank you.” He was glad for the post he was leaning against. At least she couldn’t sit too close this time.

“Good. I was worried you were feeling lonely by yourself.” She smiled shyly. “You know you can always talk to me, right? If something’s happened, I mean.”

Talk to her? What the hell was this girl getting at? Hadn’t he had enough conversation over the last twenty-four hours? He really didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

“I’m fine, thank you. I don’t believe there’s anything to discuss.” He wondered if he could edge away. Somehow, talking to her always made him uncomfortable and — despite his considerable deductive prowess — he wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was the fact that he always felt like they were having two different conversations when she spoke to him? Regardless, he settled for the slightly less rude route tonight and simply avoided eye contact, instead watching the different cliques of women form.

“Well, you must be looking for some peace and quiet. Why don’t we go find somewhere quieter?” She had moved subtly closer. Sherlock was losing patience.

“It’s plenty quiet right here. Or it _was_.” Fine. The ruder approach it was.

She rolled her eyes, a touch of irritation showing. “Men just don’t pick up hints like they used to.” What the hell did that mean?

John walked in to the room and made eye contact with him. Just at the same time Amanda grabbed Sherlock’s crotch.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Sherlock screeched, admittedly louder than he had intended to. He had pretty much jumped out of his skin at the contact. For the first time this night, he bothered to look at her and was met with her unimpressed expression which clearly said ‘do you get it now?’

John had scurried over, with a far milder limp than before, coming up beside them before Amanda saw him. She flushed red when she noticed him.

“What would be going on here?” John asked, surprisingly calm. Sherlock wasn’t sure he could manage the same level of composure. “Sherlock?”

“I...I’m not sure.” He wasn’t. What had just happened? He was flustered, and spitting out words without thinking. Trying to control the rising tide of panic that had started his heart hammering in his chest, Sherlock covertly bit his tongue just to give him something else to focus on. What the _fuck_ just happened?

Amanda stepped in, quietly.

“Sorry, John, I just was trying to send a message to Sherlock here. He doesn’t pay much attention otherwise.” She was pretending to be calm, but not doing a good job of it. Her smile looked a little too forced.

“Ah, well. I recommend not doing it again,” John responded, obviously confused and disbelieving. “I’m fairly certain Sherlock did not appreciate it.”

“I definitely did not!” The victim in question was instinctively sidling closer to John. “I don’t know why that would be appropriate in any setting.”

Sherlock felt the awkwardness set in. He wished he could sink in to the floor in embarrassment. Obviously, he had missed something somewhere along the line. And it killed him to miss anything of that calibre.

The three of them stood in silence for a few seconds before John managed to change the subject.

“I think it’s Sherlock’s turn for alone time now, anyway.” John grabbed his hand, and Sherlock felt himself blush at the second unexpected physical contact of the night. “If you’ll excuse us.”

He could see everyone staring as John led him away. Once again, he was the spectacle.

~

“Oh my God, when she grabbed his crotch, I thought he was going to have an aneurism,” Karen half-screamed. “Poor bloke got fondled right out of the blue.”

She was laughing, though. Not shocked.

“I guess we should’ve seen it coming. Amanda’s been going on about him for a while.”

~

“What a slut!” Lucy yelled. “Can you imagine? Hitting on someone other than John is just...”

She couldn’t finish. The rage filled the screen before she could continue her offended tirade.

“What a pathetic slut!”

~

“Well, that was unexpected,” John laughed once they settled into the couch. He patted Sherlock on the knee, while the detective continued to blush furiously. “How long has she been hitting on you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she has been.” He wasn’t entirely convinced. And John was touching him, and it wasn’t unpleasant, whereas Amanda — and every other moment of physical contact in Sherlock’s life — had pretty well made him sick.

“Yes, Sherlock, that is definitely what it was. And I doubt she hasn’t been gearing up for this for awhile” John was mocking him. Good-naturedly, but still. He shouldn’t be laughing this much.

“She might have just, I don’t know. Decided on the spur of the moment to–” Fuck, he couldn’t even finish that sentence. Sherlock was not pouting. That was not his pouty face.

“I can’t think of another reason for a woman to grab your crotch randomly. Can you?”

He refused to answer that. There had to be another reason. Maybe she was distracting him? He could not have missed something so obvious.

John took one look at his face and started to rub his knee. Sherlock knew he was blushing again.

“This is what you meant by ‘not really your area?’” He wasn’t sure if the sympathy made him feel better, or worse.

“Yes, it would be.” Could he hide in the couch? Hiding would be nice. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to go out there and mingle with all those women after this. It was a terrifying prospect. They now knew his blind spot. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to live this down.”

John chuckled lightly. Sherlock felt the hand on his knee tense, comfortingly.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Most people aren’t expecting to be molested in a public setting.” Sherlock sighed, and John’s smile grew warmer. “Besides, she wasn’t exactly acting appropriately.”

“I still should have seen it coming.” Sherlock tried not to pout. And he tried not to lean in to John’s touch. “It’s going to be very awkward after this.”

“Well, I’ll take care of that, okay?” John was standing up now. That had been shorter than he wanted. The fact that he wanted more was unnerving too. Maybe he should just kill himself and save any further embarrassment. This was getting ridiculous. And with John’s last phrase he was sure that he had now arrived at the end of the line on this pathetic program. Great. He got to go out with a whore grabbing his junk.

“We’re going to rose ceremony after this, so get ready,” John said helping him up.

He wondered what he was bracing for.

~

Dave was waiting for them in the ceremony room.

“Ladies, and gentleman, it’s been an interesting week here in Ireland,” he said, his false charm dripping off of every syllable. John just stood awkwardly beside him. “There were castles, and islands, and more sheep than any of you could ever want. Amelia, Karen, Sarah — all three of you are safe. John, if you’re ready to begin.”

He waved at the platter of roses and gracefully bowed out. John picked up the first one.

“Sherlock,” he said without hesitation. Sherlock was a bit surprised to be called first or at all, but he made his way down to where John was. “Will you accept this rose?”

“Yes. Of course,” Sherlock answered.

John gave him a one-armed hug when he took the flower, once again surprising Sherlock. He wasn’t sure if he was okay with all this casual touching, but the shock that he hadn’t been kicked unceremoniously to the curb overtook any questioning of it right now.

“Laura,” he called next. Then Lucy, then Adele, then Stephanie, then Jennifer, then Andrea. Stacy. Cecilia. Ellen — whose name John obviously was still struggling to remember.

“Tara,” John called. Sherlock made note that not only was Tara a bitch, she was of the species _Bitchus two-faceicus_. He wondered how long it would take John to realize that she wasn’t as nice as she tried to be to him?

Unfortunately, Sherlock figured it would take a long time. Possibly forever.

Emily. Then Dave reappeared to make his announcement. Rachel, Amanda, and Anna were left. Anna was starting to cry, and Rachel looked absolutely panicked. Amanda simply stared at her feet.

“Ladies, this is the final rose this evening.”

And poof, Dave was gone with a very practiced exit. John was standing clutching the last rose, looking out at the group in front of him.

“Anna,” he called, giving the upset woman a peck on the head, when she finally scrambled down to get her rose.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

~

“Yeah, I knew that was coming,” Amanda sighed. “So much for snagging two men at once.”

~

Rachel was blubbering.

“I can’t believe this. I trusted him. I thought he was listening to me,” she cried. “I really thought we had something. He was so nice.”

She wailed a bit, before continuing.

“I guess people aren’t always as good as they seem to be.”

~

Well. John actually had fixed it. At least, one of the more uncomfortable issues. Sherlock could handle Tara. He obviously couldn’t handle sexual advances and obviously couldn’t detect subtle ones. And getting rid of one source of stress was very welcome.

Gratitude. He was really grateful. This was new.

~

“Sherlock?” John asked, opening the door. The rose ceremony had ended twenty minutes ago and he was getting ready for bed. He definitely hadn’t been expecting visitors.

“I brought you your shirt back,” Sherlock mumbled, handing the article back to him, already neatly folded. He was flushing a little. “I’ve washed it for you.”

“Ah, thanks, Sherlock.” That was really thoughtful. Though it was a strange errand for three in the morning.

“Thank you. For lending me the shirt, I mean.” He seemed really nervous, for unknown reasons. It was just a shirt, after all.

“Not a problem. Any time.” John smiled encouragingly.

“I can see you’re getting ready for bed” — pajamas, ruffled bed sheets in the background — “so I’ll let you sleep.”

 And before John could protest, he was gone.

Well, that was certainly abrupt and unusual. He shrugged and closed the door again, putting the shirt on top of the dresser. He’d have to pack it tomorrow anyway. It was really nice of Sherlock to wash it first. One less thing for John to do himself.

As he turned toward the bed, he noticed a piece of paper that must have been folded up in the clothing. Picking it up, he read the note slowly.

_Thank you for understanding... And not laughing too hard._

_Sherlock_

John smiled. He was glad to help.


	3. Episode Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Three - Paris, France
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains graphic homophobia, and homophobic violence.

Episode Three

 

Traveling had been unexpectedly pleasant. Sherlock welcomed the quiet, and the lack of interaction. The crew had filmed for a bit as they landed, getting some footage of the girls screaming over Paris. Sherlock had stood on the edges of the crowd. Paris was nice, but he somehow suspected he would be stuck in their hotel room, rather than sightseeing. He’d already had a date, and he could hardly expect John to choose him twice in a row.

After said screaming, they were given their usual time to unpack and settle themselves in, where Sherlock mostly kept to himself and avoided the others. He hated flying — too many things that could go wrong, too many people that had to be relied on. He preferred ground transit, when at all possible. The fact that this insipid show insisted on flying everywhere was just one more reason to hate it.

And now he found himself shuffled into a room that was two girls less full, but somehow just as cloistered, waiting for an invite he was sure he wouldn’t get. He sighed heavily, looking forward to a weekend of boredom while stuck in a city filled with history and excitement.

Wasn’t he supposed to be getting rid of his boredom?

“I really hope I get the first date,” Lucy was opining to the nearest listener — Anna, in this case. “Or at least _a_ date. I’m just dying for some time with John.”

“It would be so romantic to tour Paris with him,” Anna sighed. “That’s probably why they brought us here.”

“Obviously,” Stephanie crooned, bouncing her foot with impatience. “It’s just a matter of who the lucky girls are.”

Tara had separated herself off, Sherlock noticed. Awkwardly standing by the window rather than sitting with the rest of the girls. He supposed she was starting to feel a little alienated. As for himself, he still had a chair, just outside of the main group. Judging by the few suites he had been in, he would probably always have a chair to himself. Which was slightly comforting, at least.

It had been a tense half hour of awkward speculation. Sherlock was sitting silently, eyes closed, hands steepled, when Dave finally walked in.

“Hello, ladies and gentleman.” He rolled the words off his tongue, smiling with his usual flare. “I know you’re all excited to be in the most romantic city in the world today, and I hope you’re all ready for the next few dates. I’ve got an invite for the first date.”

He flourished the note temptingly while the girls went wide-eyed.

“I expect all of you are looking forward to reading it. I’ll just leave it here.” He dropped the note carefully on the coffee table and made his exit — as always, theatrical, quick, and very smooth. Sherlock sort of envied his ability to be dramatic.

Lucy had snatched the note up before anyone else could react. She danced around a bit, holding it out of reach of the other girls, before opening it and reading out loud.

“Tara,” she read, to a slightly shocked group of girls. Groans of disappointment started immediately, as Lucy kept reading. “Let’s take a trip down the Seine together.”

Well, fuck. Why didn’t he just give up now?

~

“I’m very excited.” Tara was smirking happily at the camera. “It’s every girl’s dream to have a romantic date in Paris, and I know it’ll be even better with John. But best of all? I think he picked the right girl.”

She ran a hand through her long brown hair, before shooting a winning smile at the camera.

“He’ll definitely enjoy spending time with me.”

~

“Woah, did not see that coming,” Jennifer exclaimed. “I mean, I think we all knew she wasn’t being nasty and stuck up to John. But I guess we kind of figured she’d just go under the radar.” Her brow had furrowed really tightly. She looked very distressed. “I hope to God he sees the problem with this bitch soon.”

~

Sherlock hadn’t slept that night. He hadn’t left his room yet, this morning. He had found his violin, but didn’t have the energy to play it. All he could think of was how badly these next three days were going to suck. He should probably pack. John was certainly nice, but more than likely he was also malleable, and if Sherlock knew anything about people he knew Tara would try to slant John against him. It wasn’t exactly a difficult deduction.

Not that he should care. He liked John, but he hadn’t expected anything more or a longer stay than an episode or two for shock value. That was what the producers had signed him on for, after all. The fact that he had made it to episode three was about all he could expect. He knew that, yes, he would indeed be sent packing and probably soon.

But it was so fucking infuriating to be thrown out based on the assumptions and prejudices of a homophobic, two-faced, shallow woman. It didn’t matter if he got to the end of the show, or anything like that. He just wanted to go out after Tara. Sherlock wanted — hell, he fucking _had —_ to beat her, or else he might as well write a thesis on the non-existence of karma. He hadn’t being lying when he had said he was competitive.

But the desire to win...wasn’t winning.

What could he do?

_What?_

Nothing.

Nothing more than what he had already been doing. John had liked him, even when he was honest and when he pointed out the things he could see. John didn’t have anything to hide, and Sherlock...liked that. It was rare to find a person who was honest and friendly just because they could be.

It might be his justice complex talking or maybe some kind of consideration for John’s humanity, but he hoped, _hoped_ that Tara wouldn’t end up with this Bachelor. No one deserved, well, _that_. Almost as much as he was sure he didn’t deserve to go home in place of _that_ , even if he had been dragged here under false pretenses.

After he heard Tara say her false goodbyes and close the door, he tried to pull himself together. He had to go out and socialize.

Agonizing.

~

John felt incredibly silly, floating down the Seine in a big, empty, white boat. A few days away from the girls had sensitized him to the awkwardness of this entire situation. He didn’t overly like spending his dates just sitting around snogging in the first place and, unfortunately, that seemed to be all this particular girl was interested in. That and looking at scenery, but primarily it was all about getting too close. John offered a silent prayer that he wouldn’t have to endure this kind of clinginess with the other women. It’s not like he didn’t understand, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. As he turned to look at Tara again, he knew she wanted him to kiss her. He simply didn’t want to.

So he sidestepped. And pointed out the beautiful scenery — _again_ — and talked.

“It’s so incredibly lovely,” Tara murmured as they passed some historic buildings. “I’ve been to France on photo shoots before, but I rarely get to see the city like this.”

“It really is a gorgeous city,” John replied, conceding his arm to her grasp. He supposed he could at least give her that. “I visited a couple times when I was younger, but it’s always nice to explore.”

“It’s also perfect for romance,” she said, whispering to him. “I’m so glad to be here with you.”

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” John said, failing to dodge the question like he wanted to. He really was feeling physically crowded as she seemed determined to press her entire body against his. “It’s incredibly peaceful, and I’m sure you haven’t had enough peace lately.”

“Oh, God, no. It’s been about as dramatic as you would expect.” She shrugged.

“Big fights, then?” John was honestly curious, especially since his last attempt at reconnaissance had proven more or less futile — unless he had wanted gossip.

“Not many, no. Most of us get along just fine.”

“Most of you?” She had suddenly gotten cold. John wasn’t quite sure why.

“There’s always a few clashes. Nothing major. Sherlock rubs a few girls the wrong way,” she sniffed. “I’d rather not spend my time with you talking about other people, though.”

“Ah, sorry,” John muttered. He wasn’t sure if he actually was. She must be having some troubles, if she was being so reticent about it. Maybe she hadn’t made many friends?

The rushing water filled the silence.

Suddenly, she pulled him sideways, scurrying to the other side of the boat, with John in tow. “Oh wow, look at that! Isn’t that gorgeous?”

The bridge she pointed at was definitely gorgeous. It was very similar to the last eight bridges they had gone under, but still quite pretty. John had the feeling that they wouldn’t get back around to Tara’s problems.

He was starting to wonder just how many more bridges he could take.

~

The anger was simmering now. Not in the forefront, just on a back burner, bubbling and staying hot. It was hard to not displace it on the other women, to keep it to himself. So he took it out on the remote.

“Look, I don’t know who you’re mad at, but can we please watch something that isn’t a reality show?” Laura moaned from the couch.

“We have three channels in English. You will survive this trial,” Sherlock retorted, actively engaged in flipping between the court drama — defendant was lying, but so was the prosecuting party, they were probably both in the wrong to a lesser degree than they’re blaming each other for — the paternity testing talk show — last two had obviously not been the fathers of their corresponding babies, the facial structure and jaw line was all wrong — and the barely interesting talk show about rehabilitating alcoholics. Alcoholics were all the same, anyway. Not nearly as interesting as heroin addicts, meth heads, or people hooked on more volatile substances. It’s hard to be interesting when you’re addicted to something _legal_.

Why must there be _nothing_ to engage him? The least they could do was provide him with decent entertainment. Laura huffed but didn’t protest. He was honestly surprised that she hadn’t left. Or tried to strangle him.

Actually, the second option might make things more interesting. And give him a reason to hurt someone. That would make him feel better. That or a punch to the face. Sherlock honestly couldn’t say which he preferred. The anger wasn’t entirely subduing his depression.

Controlling the telly was similar to controlling his anger. It gave him a chance to lash out at people who weren’t the main focus of his wrath. A place to vent. Which was exactly what he needed right now. And hearing the gossiping coming from the other women was just adding to his frustration.

“I know I’ll have another chance,” Lucy was saying to Cecilia, who was being incredibly patient. “I know it, but I still feel like I’ve been rejected.”

“It’s barely the first day,” Cecelia reminded. “Not like we’ve been here most of the week. I’m sure you’ll get time later.”

“But it’s all so confusing. One day, he likes me and I’m sure of it, the next, I don’t even know.” She sighed heavily and put her head in her hands.

Sherlock held in his sigh. At least she thought she had another chance and would get to go out of this godforsaken hotel at some point. Sherlock knew he wouldn’t. And now he was stuck, sitting in his chair, listening to idiots complain and watching Laura roll her eyes at his choices of programming.

Someone needed to put him out of his misery before he exploded.

~

Evening was setting by the time they reached the base of the Eiffel Tower. Surprisingly — to Tara, not John — it was completely empty. Both the tower and the area around it. Everything was empty. They started up the stairs.

“This is amazing,” Tara crooned. “It’s so incredible to have all of this to ourselves.”

“Ha, yeah, it is.” John couldn’t help but agree. He had been flabbergasted at what exactly this production could do when they wanted to. Emptying the Eiffel Tower? That was big. “And it gets better.”

“Really?” Tara gasped, typically wide-eyed and surprisingly excited. “Hurry, then. It’s at the top?”

“Yes,” John laughed, shuffling as quickly as he could. Stairs and canes don’t mix that well.  “But I’m afraid I can’t hurry too much.”

Tara paused and looked back, where John struggled, suddenly horrified with herself. She scurried back down and gave John her arm to lean on.

“No, no, don’t hurry. As long as I get there with you, the surprise can wait.” She smiled sweetly, and John couldn’t help but smile back.

They reached the landing quickly enough, anyway. The climb had John’s leg weak and slightly numb, but it was worth it. He liked to get in a little exercise, anyway. It was good for him.

And any pain was worth the view, as well as the delighted look on Tara’s face when she spotted the dinner table. Dinner for two, lit by candles, with all of Paris spread out below them. If that wasn’t romantic, John didn’t know what was.

The rose was on the table when they got there.

“Oh my gosh, this is beautiful,” Tara sighed, taking her seat. John did the same as the private waiter sidled up from his discreet station with the chef for the evening.

“A drink, Madame?” he purred in a French accent. Tara didn’t respond immediately, busy adjusting her windblown hair. “Madamoiselle?”

“Of course,” she smirked. “White wine.”

“Of course. And you, sir?” The waiter turned to John.

“Ah, the same, please.” The waiter bowed.

“I’ll be right back.”

John made his move while the waiter was gone. The date had gone really well, despite some awkward bits. It was the same with most of the other girls. John had to get used to some nervousness with that many first dates happening. They weren’t getting the same amount of practice he was.

It still felt wrong though. Sitting with Tara, smiling and making small talk above Paris was a bit surreal, but more so because he still felt guilty that this was his third one-on-one date within a week. Paul and Geoff were counting on him, though. For their sakes, he could make it past this. It was time to get the next move over with.

He picked up the rose, and offered it.

~

“Mmm,” Tara sniffed her rose affectionately. “It’s a good date that ends with a rose.”

~

The girls had gathered around the coffee table for the evening’s invitation. The gossiping had died down a bit, and those who were disappointed had stopped whining. Sherlock was waiting in silence, the same way he had been ever since the remote had been taken by the opposing camp — AKA Laura. Adele, Stephanie, and Stacy had begun the speculation.

“Eiffel Tower probably,” Adele giggled. “Cliché, but appropriate.”

“I _wish_ he’d take me up the Eiffel Tower,” Stephanie commiserated. “At this rate I’ll never get a date.”

“Oh, stop.” Stacy shook her head. “You might get the next one, for all we know. There’s no point being down about it already.”

“But, really–”

Dave ended the conversation, by abruptly showing up with a bit of a flourish. The girls quieted down very suddenly.

“Alright, ladies, time for me to deliver your invitation.” A few girls stood up, prematurely. “Hold on!” Dave cried.

Then he placed the invitation directly in Stacy’s hand.

“Please, read it to your eager friends.” He smiled as he left. Stacy stood up, almost tearing the note open, and began to read.

“Sarah, Amelia, Adele, Ellen, Anna, Karen, Cecilia, Stephanie,” she read. “Let’s see who’s afraid of the dark.”

Sherlock rested his head in his hands. His chances of going home were just exponentially multiplied. Great. The absolute horror of losing to the homophobe was starting to sink in.

At least he didn’t have to watch himself tomorrow. Maybe she could get a taste of her own medicine.

~

“Tomorrow is going to be amazing,” Anna sighed. “I cannot wait to spend a bit of time with John.”

~

“I’ve got one more chance.” Lucy had obviously been crying, and her eyes looked really red and tired. “I can’t imagine going a whole week without seeing John. Ten minutes at the rose ceremony isn’t enough.”

She turned her face away from the camera and whispered, “I’m really disappointed in myself. I don’t know when I got this pathetic.”

~

The next morning, when they arrived at their ‘destination’ they had been immediately blindfolded and lead past a few sharp turns and then down a flight of stairs. Tight, narrow, spiraling stairs, where they could hear water gurgling.  Very suspicious. When their blindfolds came off John stood eerily in the low light of the tunnels, surrounded by thousands of bones. Bones that made up the walls of the entire space.

They were in the catacombs of Paris.

At least three of them shrieked, and a bunch of the girls began to panic immediately. Somehow, everyone else seemed to be expecting the pandemonium. John, who hadn’t, just stood quietly, a statue looming behind him, and the dramatic lighting making him seem as still as the dead around him.

“This is freaking creepy,” Adele commented, as most of the girls looked around wide-eyed. She didn’t seem to be too scared, however.

Anna had taken cover behind Sarah, who seemed to be murmuring something comforting to her. Stephanie didn’t look too pleased, but she seemed to be more in control of herself. John just smiled as the moments passed. He was quite content to let them whisper and scream for a few minutes before he told them what they were doing.

“Alright, everybody calm then?” he asked after the initial unease seemed to die down. “Right. Great. So, we’ve got quite the treat for you today. All nine of us get to explore the catacombs of Paris together.”

John sounded excited, but most of the girls didn’t look as enthused. In fact, they looked rather unimpressed, like they had expected more from him. John panicked.

“I know it doesn’t sound super romantic, but there’s a ton of history down here. It’s more than a bunch of creepy bones — it’s a burial ground, for millions of people. It’s not just about being scary.” At least, he didn’t think it was. “Before you freak out, give it a chance?”

~

“Not my first choice for a date, I must admit,” Sarah laughed. “But John seems excited, and it _is_ an historical location. I can give it a try.”

~

“This is not the romantic date I was imagining,” Anna squeaked. “I really hope dinner is a little less...gothic.”

~

“I am _so_ not excited for walking around in creepy underground bone tunnels,” Ellen grumbled, obviously freaked out. “But I suppose I should be grateful for the time with John. Some girls won’t get any.”

~

Tara had been swinging her rose around all morning. Anyone who would listen had heard about her wonderful — romantic — _Eiffel Tower_ date. It was impossible to avoid, and impossible to listen to. Lucy wasn’t able to take the pressure, and had balled herself up in her room, upset and trying to control it. Emily was meditating in the corner; she said it helped her not kill people.

Jennifer, Andrea, and Laura had taken up the couch, and Sherlock had taken his normal chair, trying to watch telly instead of listening to her awful crap.

It wasn’t working.

“It was just so amazing. Can you imagine getting the Eiffel Tower all to yourselves? It was wonderful.” She sighed dramatically, sniffing her rose in fake reminiscence. She was obviously just flaunting it.

“Got it, Tara, you had a fabulous date,” Laura groaned from the couch. “We’ve heard about it three times already — you can shut up.”

“Wow, someone’s jealous,” Tara snapped back. “Everyone else gets to talk about theirs, but I can’t talk about mine?”

“The rest of us know when to shut up before it gets annoying,” Jennifer shot back. “You, obviously, don’t.”

Tara paused, then, twirling her rose, and pretending to look startled. “O-M-G. You’re just...jealous.” She laughed cruelly and stood up to leave. “Even Faggot knows I’m winning, bitches.”

Alright, opportunity presents itself. Time to hit where it hurts.

“At least we’re not fat, though,” Sherlock retorted. If she was going to play dirty, he was too. And honestly, he was furious, bored, and her self-esteem sucked. “John’s probably never felt so sorry for someone for being in the wrong career.” A brief moment to watch her face contort and add drama. “You did say you do _plus_ -sized modeling, right? With legs like yours I’m sure you have to.”

And there it was! A face crumpled somewhere between fury and tears. Sherlock relished watching that last piece of decorum break, right in front of him. The audience on the couch had suddenly gone quiet, and Tara was stalking towards him instead of away.

Mmmm, delicious conflict. Maybe he could get rid of some of his anger now.

“You didn’t dare, you cock-sucking scumbag,” she growled. “Don’t you dare tell me that I’m not better than your perverted, twisted, little self.”

“Your attempts at insults aren’t amusing either.” Sherlock vaguely wished he had brought his book with him. It was so much easier to look disinterested and dismissing when you had something else to focus on. “Really, why don’t you just fuck off and leave the rest of us to enjoy the day?”

“Fuck off yourself.” She was regaining a smidgen of composure. But only a smidgen. “I have a rose. That’s a hell of a lot better than a fag like you.”

“Say what you want, you can have your pity rose,” Sherlock snapped back. Keep your doubts inside, focus on attack. At least you can go out after having done some nasty psychological damage. “I don’t think the fact that you act like an extremely debased whore is going to bother the rest of us.”

“I hope you fucking got raped in uni,” Tara growled, beginning to stalk away, all composure gone again. Even Emily was staring at this point, meditation broken. “That’s what you deserve, fag.”

Andrea stood up to go after her, but Sherlock waved her to sit down. “Don’t bother. Not worth the effort.”

Pretty well everyone in the hotel heard that door slam.

“Sherlock, that was not okay,” Andrea snarled, however she was obviously not angry with him. That was a new sensation. Normally people would be horrified at him for baiting someone like that. Hum. “I don’t care what kind of insults you were throwing around, she cannot say things like that and get away with it.”

“It was expected. I pushed her past her limits,” Sherlock smirked, somewhat satisfied. He felt much better. Tara would probably come back to those comments for a long time. If she was going to be vicious, he would prove himself to be just as savage. “It’s somewhat nice to know that she’s that angry with me.”

“Just be glad she deserved those comments,” Andrea grumbled at him. She shook her head as she sat down. “Normally we’d be jumping on you for being cruel.”

“Sometimes, I don’t get you,” Jennifer said from the couch, shaking her head. “I know she’s been a demon to you, but I think you pissed her off to the point of murder.”

“I only wish,” Sherlock sighed under his breath.

Jennifer and Andrea both gave him a funny look. Well, he really couldn’t expect them to like him for long. No one did after all.

At least he had the satisfaction of giving Tara some of her own medicine. He could live with that.

~

“I am going to kill that bastard if he gets a rose,” Tara raged. She looked a little wild. “How fucking dare he? How fucking _dare_ he.”

She paused and took a deep breath. Her eyes were on fire.

“He obviously doesn’t know what this bitch is capable of.”

~

“Wow, there really is a lot of history down here,” Sarah murmured, her hand on John’s arm. John had been spending alone time with each girl as they explored, just hanging back a little to talk to each. He had almost forgotten how much he enjoyed Sarah’s company.

“That’s why I wanted to share it with you,” John whispered back. “It’s so...amazing down here. Like another world.”

“I love it, John, I really do.” Her eyes lit up when she smiled, and she leaned in and pecked him on the lips. His stomach did a somersault.

“Um, sorry to interrupt,” Karen broke in. She and the rest of the girls had stopped. “But we’ve lost Anna.”

“What?” John asked, startled. How do you lose someone on a group tour?

“Last place anyone saw her was about three monuments ago,” Amelia added. Always prepared, that one.  The monuments she was referring to were large bone sculptures, which most of the girls had found creepy. “Should we go back?”

“We’re going to have to,” John answered quickly, worried. He kind of wondered how she’d gotten separated. “We’re going to have to split up, too. There are a lot of different routes down here.”

“Doesn’t that run the risk of more of us getting lost?” Stephanie protested. “I mean, it’s not like we need more of that.”

“We all meet back here in thirty minutes, then.” Sarah pulled out her watch. “Everyone does have a watch, right?”

They all nodded.

It was too bad they couldn’t count on the cameramen, John mused. It would be so much easier if they weren’t essentially living furniture. He knew it was in their contract — no interaction or they get fired. That’s what made them so easy to ignore. But it would’ve been helpful to have some extra hands.

~

“Poor girl was terrified in the first place,” Karen fretted. “It’s not fair that she got lost down here all alone. She’s probably scared out of her wits.”

~

“I just can’t believe we don’t have a rescue team we can call in,” Stephanie griped. “We have a production team that can empty out big tourist sites for a day, but we have to look for her ourselves and on foot? Classy.”

~

“I just want to go home,” Ellen cried. Her time with John had gone badly, and she seemed to be getting more on edge as the day wore on. “It’s creepy down here, and I’m tired, and this whole thing has been a mess.”

~

Tara hadn’t bothered to come out of her room for the invitation drop off, and the host was noticing. Dave had come in, looked around, and instantly said, “I see we’re one lady short this evening. Is she indisposed?”

“More like intolerable,” Andrea muttered. “I don’t think she’s coming.”

“Well, then, ladies and gent, we’ll cut to the chase.” He smiled and plopped the envelope on the coffee table, as usual. “It’s a good one this, time!”

Lucy dove for it. No one else bothered to move. She read it silently then put it back down, dejected. The other girls watched as she covered her eyes and slipped off to her room. Emily picked the invitation back up.

“Sherlock,” she read, “the keys to the vault are ours.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Laura asked.

Sherlock would have answered, but he was busy being surprised. Shocked actually. Or possibly flabbergasted. That was getting closer to the level of incredulity that he was feeling. Out of all the pretty women here, he had gotten a date in the most romantic city in the world? The date coveted by everyone but him? Lucy was in her bedroom bawling, for crying out loud, and probably wouldn’t leave until the rose ceremony. But he got to waltz through Paris with John?

It didn’t make sense, but he was ecstatic. The chances of him not getting a rose on a date were minuscule from what he understood. That meant one more chance to beat Tara. And all he needed was one more fucking chance.

“Congrats, Sherlock,” Jennifer cheered, patting him on the back. Jennifer was tolerable, and even somewhat sarcastically amusing, but he still cringed slightly at the physical contact. Why were these girls so...feely? He didn’t need to touch people to interact with them. “You better fucking enjoy this for all of us.”

“Yeah, really,” Laura put in. “You’ve got the last date in Paris — make the most of it.”

“I’ll try,” Sherlock replied, feeling a little trapped, suddenly. The girls had all crowded around him to celebrate, which, honestly, wasn’t his preferred method of rejoicing. But it wasn’t about to lessen his excitement.

“Just lock your door when you go to bed,” Andrea cried. “Tara will want to stab you in your sleep once she finds out.”

Sherlock couldn’t be happier with that fact.

~

“I fucking hate him,” Lucy bawled. She looked terrible, to put it mildly, hunched inwards and trembling a bit. “I know it’s not his fault, I know it’s not. But I can’t hate John and it’s just so easy to hate him. I just want to die, right now.”

She wiped violently at her red eyes. “This is so not fair. It should have been me.”

~

John and Ellen were the group that found her. Everyone had branched off in groups of two as they had come to forks in the tunnel. But it was John and Ellen that finally stumbled across her, curled in a corner, shaking a bit. John immediately ran up to her, letting her grab his hand and kneeling down beside her.

“You’re alright, Anna?” he asked softly. She seemed frightened, but okay. He immediately started checking for signs of shock or trauma. It took him a moment to remember that this wasn’t a battlefield.

“Yeah,” she smiled weakly. “I guess I am now.”

He shook his vague images of deserts away and smiled back. Trying to be a bit reassuring at least. See if he could make her feel a little better. It seemed to be working.

“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “I’m glad we found you.”

Ellen sighed, heavily, and rolled her eyes. “Let’s get out of here then? It’s a miserable place to be.”

John frowned, but Anna nodded. He supposed this was his fault. These women were here for romance, not culture. The least he could do is show them what they wanted and make sure they don’t get lost.

Next time he’d pick something above ground.

~

“That was terrible,” Anna cried. “I mean, absolutely awful. One minute I’m reading a plaque while everyone else looks around, next minute I’m alone and disoriented and in a crypt.” Her eyes were swollen and red, and she was still shaking slightly. “Just because it’s the perfect place to die, doesn’t mean I want to be stuck there. I didn’t know what to do or where to go, or anything. So I sat down and waited for them to notice me.”

~

Everyone made sure to pay special attention to Anna during dinner. She sat between Karen and Sarah, who were both actively engaged in making sure she felt welcome. No one was particularly willing to look like they weren’t worried about her, though some were doing worse jobs at pretending. Ellen could barely keep smile on her face, and she didn’t even seem too happy about the five-star restaurant. Adele kept asking her if she was feeling okay.

“You’re sure you’re alright, then?” Adele asked again, looking for a different answer. She was rapidly getting frustrated with the half-response.

“Yeah, fine,” Ellen mumbled, still not looking fine. Her curls were going limp, and she had a very forced smile-frown on her face. She shuffled sideways, into the corner, when John stood up, and Adele let her go. It was John’s turn for attention.

“Alright, ladies,” he announced, holding the rose in his hand. He had picked it up after they had sat down. “I think it’s clear who should get this rose. She’s put up with a lot today, and she’s been so sweet about the whole thing. This is the least I can do to make up for it.”

John smiled softly and offered the rose to Anna.

“Anna, will you accept this rose?”

“Of course I will.” There were tears in her eyes, but she had the biggest smile he had ever seen on her face.

~

“Well, fuck me,” Ellen muttered. “I guess inconveniencing all of us is grounds for a rose. Can I go back to the hotel now?”

~

“It’s great for Anna,” Sarah beamed at the camera, “and I don’t really think any of us have to worry. It makes up for sitting shivering in an ossuary for half an hour, I hope.”

~

“Well, I suppose that was just as fair as any other way.” Stephanie looked only a little put out. “She’ll probably feel better now too.”

~

“John is so perfect,” Anna sighed, misty-eyed. “It’s like having a knight there to take care of me. I think I could stay with him forever.”

~

Sherlock spent the next morning getting ready. He wasn’t sure where he was going, or when he could leave, but he was sure he didn’t need farm clothes this time. And that he didn’t have to mingle today. Alone time was precious in this environment.

By the time he was taken away, though, it was evening. And he was driven straight to a fancy restaurant, with John waiting at the door to greet him.

“We’re starting with dinner?” Sherlock questioned immediately. “That seems odd.”

“Ah, well, the rest of the date isn’t ready yet.” John smiled, motioning for him to come and sit down. “We’re going to eat and take a walk through the city first.”

“Alright. As long as we’re not going to some sort of night club,” Sherlock shuddered at the thought, as he took his chair. There was nothing he loathed more than the club type of atmosphere. It set off all his nerves and neuroses at once, which was just what he _didn’t_ need tonight.

“Never,” John laughed. His smile was sweet and genuine. Which was odd. Sherlock didn’t know many people who smiled as often as John did. Especially around him. “I don’t think anyone would appreciate trying to dance and grind around my crippled self. I’d trip someone with my cane.”

They were both grinning at the image. Sherlock hadn’t figured John for the night club type, anyway. Which was great, because he really couldn’t stand the deafening music and the sweat and heat of hundreds of strangers. He would probably have had to pass up on this date or risk murdering someone during it.

“It’s good we’re not going then,” he responded. Their food was served right then, without them even having to order. The nice thing about empty restaurants was that meals both came quickly and were usually pre-prepared. Both Sherlock and John could appreciate that.

The waiter breezed by them silently, filling two glasses with red wine and pouring some water. He didn’t ask if they needed anything, in what was probably an attempt to preserve the romantic atmosphere. Unfortunately, the romantic atmosphere was really not there. John had kind of gone quiet as the food arrived, and for now they were eating in silence.

“How has Paris been so far?” Sherlock ventured, trying to breach the awkwardness with small talk. Not usually his thing, but really it was that or sit there quietly...very, very quietly.

“It’s been good,” John said with a weak smile. “The city is beautiful.”

“The dates have been interesting from what I hear.” John was eating again. Not even interested. That was about when Sherlock’s annoyance turned into panic.

“Yeah, it’s exciting. I’m sure the girls told you all about it.” John shifted nervously, and went back to his linguine. Sherlock simply stared for a moment or two before deciding that he was screwed no matter what he did. Something had gone wrong, and he was about to find out what, at least.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, almost defeated.

“What?” _That_ startled him. John’s eyes sparkled and he looked around. “No, of course not. Why?”

“Because you’re being eerily quiet and giving me short and blunt answers all of a sudden,” the detective said with a huff and a roll of his eyes. “If I’ve done something, you can just say so.”

“No, no, you didn’t do anything,” John protested, blushing a bit. He seemed flustered. Very flustered.

“Then what, may I ask, is your problem?”

“Ah,” John stuttered or a moment. He shifted again. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s obviously something.” Ah, the inevitable nervousness of someone who’s embarrassed. He’s been caught acting strangely, and now Sherlock got to watch him squirm. No matter how interesting John was, it was always amusing to watch someone squirm under pressure. Very few things were as satisfying. “Tell me.”

“I just find restaurants somewhat awkward, is all.” John fiddled with his fork while Sherlock watched. “It always feels like everyone is eavesdropping. Even though I know that’s ridiculous.”

“Well, honestly, this is going on national television. Basically all of Britain can eavesdrop if they wish. What does it matter?” Sherlock was actively avoiding the food on his plate while still making it seem like he was eating something. He wasn’t hungry and the last thing he needed was more food to slow his thinking down.

“It doesn’t really. I just don’t like the sensation.”

Sherlock noted the way John’s brow furrowed and the way he tensed a bit, as if realizing that he had just shared that conversation with a lot of other people. It was usually so easy to forget the cameras. They basically acted as furniture, which made them fairly unobtrusive. But right now they might as well be screaming and waving banners. Sherlock shrugged. The feeling would pass.

“Sorry,” John muttered. “I don’t mean to force my hang ups on you.”

“Well, if you’re finished, maybe we can get out of here so you can relax and actually talk to me?” Sherlock stood and brushed himself off, despite knowing that there was nothing to brush. Keeping up with appearances and all. John followed quickly. Much faster than if he had a real limp to worry about.

A smirk flitted across Sherlock’s face. That limp wouldn’t last forever, if he had anything to do with it. Besides, John was nice. If awkward during dinners. And John was amusing. He was tempted to plan something.

 By the time they had their coats and got outside, it was dark.

“Lovely night for a walk,” John said, happily striding along, despite the fake limp. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Indeed,” Sherlock returned. He was still curious as to where they were going, but also didn’t feel like spoiling his surprise. John would be disappointed, and he didn’t want to disappoint John just yet. It was his turn to keep up small talk. “So, are you returning to London after this?”

“Yeah, I think so.” John’s smile wavered a bit. He obviously wasn’t entirely comfortable with this subject. “I’m not sure what I’ll do when I get there, though. I can’t afford a flat on an army pension.”

“No family nearby, then?” Sherlock observed calmly. He doubted that was true, however. It was rare to find an Englishman without some family in London, and John had obviously lived there before his stint in the army, which meant that he had most likely lived with family. It was all about leading questions.

“No, my sister lives there, but I won’t stay with her.” John didn’t elaborate — avoiding the subject. Some sort of family problem, possibly substance abuse, since he seemed just a touch embarrassed as well. “Besides, I’d want to be at least somewhat independent.”

“Especially if you come home with a fiancée.” Sherlock duly noted as they steered off the pretty-yet-repetitive streets of Paris and into a lush park. John paused for a second and blushed, as if he’d forgotten about this whole shenanigan. Oh, interesting.

“Well, hopefully. There are some kids back in my corps that will be disappointed if I don’t.” John took some time to examine the flowerbed very closely. “Lovely flowers here.”

“I would hope so. Paris spends tons of money to look this pretty.” Sherlock allowed the subject change for just a moment. “So I suppose it’s my turn to make sure you aren’t here under duress?”

“What?” John looked a bit startled. He shook his head violently in protest as they continued to walk. “No, no. I mean, it’s not my kind of thing, really, and I probably wouldn’t have done it if Geoff and Paul hadn’t asked me too...”

“But you’re happy with it now?” Sherlock somehow doubted happy was the right word. John was putting up a fuss, but he wasn’t really doing what he wanted to or expected. What Sherlock expected was some kind of admission that yes, a bevy of willing women was indeed the best thing in the world and how could he not think so. But John seemed somehow reticent and somehow nervous about the whole thing. Doubting he could find any other man that would display this peculiar mix of emotions, Sherlock couldn’t help but be fascinated with the slight enigma. If John wasn’t so conflicted, he doubted he would be so...drawn to him, he guessed would be the most accurate phrase.

“Well, I guess, yeah. I mean, it’s not bad.” John was surprisingly cute when flustered. Sherlock wasn’t really sure where that sentiment kept coming from, but it was certainly true. John was cute. The sheer warmth of that statement almost disgusted him on some level. But he couldn’t help but feel it anyway. “I’m kind of neutral on the whole thing. I’m not sure if I can expect much or if anything is going to last after the show, but I like you and the girls, and I’m willing to try.”

John beamed up at him, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back. John found it hard to resist that smile. And the honest questions, and the searching conversation. And Sherlock’s eyes were so blue and he was handsome, and John was interested. If Sherlock had been a girl, he would have kissed him by now. But he wasn’t. John really wasn’t even completely sure Sherlock was interested. Or if _he_ was interested. The whole ‘I’m rather attracted to this man regardless of gender’ thing wasn’t very familiar to him. It was like the entire world was out to remind him of how _male_ Sherlock was every time he almost forgot. Romantic thoughts were all well and good until you had to question your sexuality and do something about it.

Or maybe he was just confused by the fact that Sherlock seemed interested in him but completely uninterested in him at the same time?

Sherlock simply stood there. Waiting. So John braced himself, told himself he would think about it later, and went for it.

And promptly aborted mid-kiss as Sherlock turned and continued walking.

Stumbling after him, trying to keep up, John squashed the disappointment. Sherlock was completely oblivious to everything. Unsurprisingly. Sometimes John was pretty sure that he was the only one feeling any romantic tension here. And then Sherlock looked at him and John could swear they were both struggling with the same emotions. Honestly? He was just confused.

As they rounded another corner, he could see that they were looming closer to the Louvre. He smiled. At least he had one thing to depend on. Tonight was going to be fun.

“Oh, come on.” John dragged Sherlock behind him in a hobbling lope. “We’re going to be late.”

~

“I cannot believe Sherlock got the last date in Paris,” Tara hissed at the camera. She looked tired and angry. “I hope John finally realizes what a whiny bitch he really is and throws his ass out. I really, _really_ do.”

~

Sarah was surprised at how tightly Anna was staying by her. The poor thing hadn’t gone further than a foot or two away from her — or, alternatively, Karen. It was like whoever had comforted her was now her friend. She also seemed to be fitting in better than she had before, slightly less shy.

Still fairly shy, though. She was blushing and stuttering as Emily tried to ask her a question — something about the nature of love.

“Well, ah, I do think it has to be perfect,” Anna stumbled. “If it’s not perfect or at least really good, it’s probably not going to last.”

“Bad experiences?”

“A few. And, just...hope, I guess.” Anna was bright red at this point. Ellen made a disgusted noise and stood up.

“Well, I think it’s all trash. You either get along with someone or you don’t. None of this ‘perfect _loooove_ ’ mush.” She grumbled and started to stalk away. She’d been in a terrible mood all day, and for most of the day yesterday, and no one could figure out why.

Sarah sighed. It was chaotic and difficult to spend this much time with other people. Why did they have to be together all the time? She kind of just wished for a calm walk outside, and some fresh air for a while. The date yesterday had been great, if unusual, and she just wanted to bask in that happiness for a while.

She wasn’t going to get to, though, so it was best to make the most of things as they were. She sighed and stood up.

“Do you think there are any games we could play?” She asked the room.

Like magic, a deck of cards was produced.

~

“I thought this date would be perfect for Sherlock,” John said to the camera, practicing his suave smile and not entirely succeeding. “If any one seemed the type to enjoy art and classical music, it’s him. I just hope I’m right.”

~

They reached the Louvre just as the museum finished closing up. The attendants waved them in, and one directed them down the stairs under the glass pyramid, to some seats set in front of a make-shift stage, complete with red velvet curtain and a huge empty auditorium — the main entrance chamber of the Louvre. Sherlock was a bit shell-shocked. The museum was empty, but the lights were still on and a few workers were just coming in, instead of leaving for the night.

This couldn’t all be for him. It couldn’t be. There had to be a catch.

“You like classical music?” John asked, politely tucking his cane under his chair. Sherlock grinned at him.

“Adore it. Though I admit to not knowing many French composers who wrote string quartets.” He gestured to the mingling musicians with his head. John wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed them. “You?”

“I picked up a fondness for it when I was younger.” John laughed and mimed playing a trumpet. “I used to play this old second hand trumpet, and I was awful at it.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.” Sherlock decided that now was not the time to mention his antique Stradivarius. He did not need to show up _anyone_ right now. “Nothing could be worse than when I started playing violin.”

“I’ve heard that everyone screeches at first,” John laughed. “It’s apparently impossible to avoid.”

“I was very determined not to screech,” Sherlock reminisced, once again letting go of more information than he had planned to. John really should do undercover work; the information he could extract from a person was incredible. Definitely wasn’t scheming enough for the job, though. “And I only did once. That doesn’t mean I was in tune, though.”

Sherlock winced slightly at the memory. His perfect pitch had made him want to throw the instrument out the window, but _Mummy_ (he groaned inwardly) had insisted that he play and practice every day. If he hadn’t mastered it, it would have killed his hearing.

“I can see that,” John laughed. “At least you tried not to sound awful. I don’t think I even tried.”

Suddenly there was a gentle cough. The curtains drew back to reveal a lady standing at the forefront of the ‘stage’ holding a violin.

“Gentlemen,” she spoke with a very light French accent. “We have a beautiful selection of string quartet music for you, this evening. Programs are available, if you wish.”

She paused, waiting for a response.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Sherlock answered quickly. He didn’t want to fuss with programs for just two people. The woman smiled and continued.

“Very well. I am Suzanne and my three companions are Stephan, François, and Maurice.  Together we are _Quatre Vivant_. If you are ready, we shall begin.” She took her seat, while John and Sherlock assured her they were ready.

And then they started to play. Gorgeous, perfectly pitched music floated through the empty cavern of an entrance room. Sherlock immediately relaxed and closed his eyes, fingers keeping time on his knee with familiar sections and solos, obviously lost in the music.

John wasn’t sure if he should be watching the musicians or Sherlock, but both were fascinating. As the music rose and fell, so did Sherlock’s hands and the energy in him. The trill of the violins was dizzying; the low thrums of the adagios were core-shaking. John wasn’t sure he’d ever heard music so beautiful.

The quartet played for about an hour — Mozart, Hayden, Schubert, and Beethoven to finish, all with several movements, and no pause between pieces. By the time the performers had stood to bow, he was sure they were exhausted. The two of them gave them the smallest standing ovation ever, with echoing claps from the attendants on duty.

“That was gorgeous,” John whispered, still half-mesmerized. Sherlock’s quick stretch of his long slender fingers was drawing his eyes back to the detective. “I didn’t think it would be quite this good.”

“It certainly was a good performance,” Sherlock agreed, nodding once more at the musicians as they packed. He seemed engaged, which was encouraging. “Funny how they didn’t play a single French item, however. Not that I’m complaining.”

“You liked it?” John asked, genuinely curious. He didn’t want to drag Sherlock further if he wasn’t having a good time. He seemed to be, but John could be imagining it.

“Of course.” Sherlock had loved it. It was beautiful. Listening to a highly professional group play beautifully for an audience of two in an empty museum with amazing acoustics was a treat he could never have asked for. He should probably say something more to John. “It was absolutely incredible.” He smiled and John looked relieved.

“Good. Good, I’m glad.” He smiled back. “Are you ready to look at paintings, then?”

“We get to look around?” His heart trilled a bit at the thought. Somehow this evening couldn’t get much better. “Do we have free range?”

“Of course. They’ve agreed to let us run around all we want.” John looked extremely happy. And, honestly, so was Sherlock.

“Let’s run, then!” He grabbed John’s hand and started running towards the nearest exhibit. He could only hope that the next few hours were enough to see everything.

~

They had ended up playing various card games, including poker with bits of paper as fake betting chips. Tara and Ellen had refused to join in, Tara because she wasn’t getting out of bed, and Ellen because she was going to take a bath and a nap. Sarah had managed to coax Lucy out of her bedroom, though, for the first time all day. She had started the games red-eyed and a little sad-looking, but had picked quickly up as they continued to play. By this point she was looking much better, though her eyes still had bit of red in them.

“I might win this round too!” Lucy taunted, having won the last three hands of old maid. It made Sarah happy to see her come around so easily. Lucy was good to talk to, even if she was a little weepy about romance.

“If you do, we’re going to have to see if you’re cheating,” Amelia grumbled. She hadn’t won yet, though she wasn’t too upset. She hadn’t stopped smiling the entire time, and she was surprisingly aggressive with her “bets.” “It’s about time to change games anyway.”

It was nice to be drama free for a little while. And she didn’t know if she could keep it up, but she thought maybe she could try. John would probably want them to get along, anyway.

And she certainly wanted to get along with John.

~

“I can’t believe I didn’t win a single game,” Amelia moaned. “I’ll have to try harder next time. Or maybe just stack the deck.”

~

John hadn’t really expected Sherlock to be an art enthusiast, but he supposed he wasn’t surprised that he was. After all, art crimes were huge, and Sherlock obviously adored both crime and history. It was like touring the Louvre with a very energetic, enthusiastic art textbook. An art textbook that was also very handsome and knew all the dirty, gossipy facts around each artist and painting.

And every time they came across a painting Sherlock particularly loved — Delacroix’s _Barque of Dante_ , Ingres’ _Grand Odalisque_ , Caravaggio’s _Death of the Virgin_ — he got a history of the painting, and the scandal surrounding it and everything he could ever want to know about the work. Sherlock was still talking about the Caravaggio as they wandered through the aisles of beautiful statues.

“Something that can stir such controversy and rage in the general public, over such a normal occurrence being portrayed as such,” Sherlock listed, taking his time to inspect the beautiful curves of _Venus de Milo_ , “is just amazing. Art has so much power, and most of the time we don’t even realize that we give that to it.”

“I didn’t realize that so many of these had histories like that,” John replied, honest with his answer. It had been fascinating to listen to Sherlock, to learn so much from one man who apparently had endless amounts of intelligence at his disposal. Talking to Sherlock was something that he found easy, even after hours of conversation. “You must have a ton of facts memorized.”

Sherlock scowled briefly. John might have been a bit jealous that even his scowl was pretty. “I do worry that my hard drive is too cluttered. I try to delete anything that isn’t relevant or interesting, but I must admit to finding art incredibly engaging.”

“You delete things?” John raised an eyebrow at that thought. “That sounds a little preposterous.”

“I do my best not to remember the name, birthdate, and dating history of my uncle’s third niece on his wife’s side, or useless things like how many planets are in our solar system.” He walked swiftly to the next statue before pausing in reverence.

“You don’t know the solar system?” But he could recite detailed histories of every interesting item in the Louvre. John was a bit incredulous.

“It’s not relevant whether the earth is a star or orbits around one or if there are four thousand asteroids nearby. None of these affect me or my work. That’s someone else’s job.” Sherlock glanced around and saw a statue at the end of the hall. His face brightened. “Ah, they have _Death of a Slave_!”

John found himself rushing after Sherlock, a bit slower than the detective. He was surprised at how easily he had managed to keep up all evening. Dashing from statue to painting to statue and chewing on all the information Sherlock had given to him — which was a lot, including the things about Sherlock, himself — had kept him rather preoccupied. John felt more alive than he had in months. Maybe since he had been shot.

 It had been fantastic. Chasing after Sherlock physically and mentally was possibly the best first date John had ever had.

 When he finally careened to the end of the hall, Sherlock was talking with an older gentleman, holding a broom.

“So it’s been restored then?” he asked, excitedly, obviously engaged with the conversation.

“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” the man replied. “We put it right as soon as you tracked down the thief.”

“Fantastic! I’d love to show John.” He turned to the doctor very suddenly. “A few months ago the French government hired me to recover Bosch’s _Ship of Fools_ for the gallery after it was stolen. Bernard, here, was a great help to me.”

“Just doing my job, sir,” Bernard tipped his head gently and smiled widely. “And I should get back to it. I was supposed to avoid you two, but I couldn’t help but say hello.”

“It was a pleasure to see you again,” Sherlock replied. “Could I ask one favour, though?”

“Name it.” Sherlock bent and whispered something. Bernard looked pleasantly surprised. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. I’ll do it right away.”

Before admittedly befuddled John could ask, Sherlock clasped his shoulders and spun him around to show him the statue.

“Do you know this one?” he whispered softly, breath ghosting against John’s ear. John felt a shiver run through him and shook his head slightly. “It’s _Death of a Slave_. Rodin. One of my favourites, but sadly under appreciated. It’s a beautiful depiction.”

“No seedy facts on this one?” John felt himself relaxing a bit into Sherlock’s grasp, feeling the fingers softly clutching him. It was comforting. Comfortable. Nice.

“No. It’s just a great composition, excellent workmanship, and slightly morbid subject matter.” Sherlock stood straight, reluctantly pulling away from contact he usually avoided. By this point he was having too much fun. John was better than pleasant company, and seemed genuinely interested in his pedantic art history. His smile sharpened into a smirk. “I do love slightly morbid subjects.”

Surprisingly, John smiled back. Good. “The whole crime, thing?”

Everything seemed to tie back to Sherlock’s work. But for a job? He seemed perfectly suited to it.

“Nothing that excites the emotions more than crime and violence. It’s simply uncomfortable for most people to admit.” Sherlock glanced briefly towards John’s hip, a quick passing calculation. “I want to show you the Bosch, as well.”

Sherlock sprung and grabbed his hand again and started running up the stairs. John was starting to get adjusted to being both winded and confused. And he liked it, which he thought should bother him more.

They ended up taking a very roundabout way to the Bosch painting, Sherlock talking the whole way, and when they finally did get there, they both were incredibly winded. And smiling.

“So this is the famous painting?” John asked laughingly, looking a painting about twice the size of a sheet of paper, roughly painted in a medieval style, on a wood panel. It was labeled as part of a Triptych, the other pieces of which were elsewhere. “Seems a little small.”

“Makes it perfect for stealing,” Sherlock responded. “Especially since it’s not incredibly famous. What would you do with the _Mona Lisa_ after stealing it? You’d be arrested as soon as you tried to get rid of it.”

“I suppose you’re right.” That hadn’t really occurred to him. But it was definitely true. It’s not like you could get it appraised for sale.

Sherlock walked a bit to the side and came back with something John had both not seen when they came in, and not missed while they had been running around. His cane.

Somehow, rushing around a museum like a madman, he had forgotten that he was supposed to be limping. He was too excited and felt too great to be a cripple — so he wasn’t. Sherlock had managed in a few hours to conquer something a licensed therapist had told him might take years to heal. The man was amazing. Incredible. And for whatever reason he was here for John. And he was beautiful, standing there with his shaggy dark hair and smooth white skin, and John definitely hadn’t felt this way about another man, and possibly not even a woman. It wasn’t just the cane. Or the intelligence. Or the conversation. Or how pretty he was. All of that combined was more than it was in pieces. And John couldn’t help but want more.

“I had Bernard bring it up for us,” Sherlock murmured, offering the cane to John. “I didn’t want you to forget it. What would you do when your limp came back?”

John didn’t think twice this time. He just leaned in and kissed him, resting his lips against Sherlock’s. By the time he realized what he had done, it was over and they were both blushing. And suddenly, there was awkwardness for the first time all evening.

“Ah, thank you,” John said, trying to pick up where they had left off before kissing had happened.

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock was confused. Confused and yet happy. He had liked that. And he didn’t know why.

“Well, I think it’s my turn to give you something,” John muttered, blushing even harder as he pulled a lapel rose from his pocket. “This was amazing, Sherlock. I didn’t think a gallery visit would be so enjoyable.”

“Then you obviously haven’t visited the right galleries.” And right there, it was back. The awkwardness was gone, and they both seemed to be back to where they should be. John could feel the relief from both of them. He knew he was grinning.

“Sherlock, will you accept this rose?” He asked softly.

“Of course.” And that, was that.

~

“That was incredible,” John murmured. “ _Sherlock_ is incredible. In so many ways. I’m not sure I can really express how true that is. Do I want to do this again? Emphatic ‘yes.’”

~

By the time they got back, it was four in the morning. Sherlock had high hopes of slipping through the common room without notice and just sleeping until noon. At least noon. He left the lights off as he silently opened the door and closed it behind him. Silent steps, around the table, to the left of the chair, and — directly on the remote.

“Shit,” he hissed, scrambling to turn it off. Too late. A light snapped on beside the couch, and Lucy put her head up. Lucy, Amelia, Laura, and Emily lay in various locations all over the floor, empty glasses and what looked like nail polish scattered on the hardwood. A sleepover. Delightful.

“Sherlock!” Laura groggily exclaimed. “You just get back now?”

“Yes, and I’d rather like to get to sleep.” Though there was no way that was going to happen. A few other girls had stumbled out from the bedrooms, including Tara. All of them were ogling his rose groggily, and possibly with a bit of anger. He _was_ back late. It would have looked suspicious if he hadn’t left so late.

“Where were you?” Lucy was grilling him for details. “Was it nice?”

“I’m sure cock-sucking was great,” Tara snapped, already in a bad mood. “No other reason to be out so fucking late.”

Oh. Oh, not in the mood for this bullshit. Sherlock had — for once — enjoyed one of these miserable activities. There had been some level of culture, enjoyable company, and a chance to stretch his legs without having to watch every motion or comment. He was not letting Tara ruin it.

“I was at the _Louvre_ , if you must know. Enjoying classical music, and free range of the museum without tourists to louse it up.” A couple of the other girls made “ _ooo_ ” sounds. Lucy looked incredibly jealous.

“So you sucked his cock in a museum. It’s still cock-sucking, you faggot.” Tara was starting to look more awake, and incredibly angry. Stewing over the fact that he was now on equal footing with her? Definitely.

“Are you just angry that my ‘faggot’ self and you both got a date?” Sherlock growled, angry himself. There had been enough of this. “At least I was fully dressed on mine. We did all see your dress.”

“You fucking asswipe.” The other girls moved back as Tara stalked up to him. He didn’t blame them. It was late, and this wasn’t their fight. But it was most definitely his, and he was going to get it over with so he could go to sleep. Lucy had started crying, and Emily had started moving her towards the door. “You don’t even fucking belong here. If I had a choice, I’d tie your balls to a pickup and drag you behind it, you fucking whore.”

There was a soft gasp, but Sherlock ignored it. The girls could just leave Tara and him to have it out, finally.

“If you had the bravery to do that, you would have done it already.” Sherlock stood straighter to throw his insults. “You homophobic coward.”

Sometimes the simplest insults hurt the worst. After all the words they’d thrown around, that was what broke her. She had reeled back and hit him before he even registered that she was coming at him. Either she had gotten faster, or his reflexes were duller at four in the morning. Sherlock made a quick note to work on that.

And then he made note of the blood running down his temple, and the pain in his head, and the bruise forming on his cheek. And the fact that he was on the floor.

Great. Looked like she had got him at just the right angle to create a black out. Just a few seconds, but enough to get some damage in. And now she was hitting him while he was down. Classy.

She was bent over him, flailing, hitting him in the face, chest, anything that was in reach. That didn’t so much hurt. The knee that connected sharply with his ribs did.

“I fucking hate you, you fucking faggot-whore,” she screamed, scrambling for something to claw at. Laura and Jennifer were running to help, and Lucy had already made it out the door. Sherlock curled inwards, and tried to roll, but didn’t manage much — her nails dug into his shoulder, holding him so she could hit him some more.

She was screaming something, but his ears were ringing and he couldn’t really hear her. And honestly, he was more focussed on the tearing pain in his shoulder, even as Jennifer and Laura both pulled her off him. He wasn’t expecting that. Jennifer had a scratch down her arm in a matter of seconds, as Tara violently tried to pull away. But the two of them managed to keep her in check.

He supposed he should be grateful. And he sort of was. But it didn’t make any sense. He’d provoked it. He could have hit back. But that would be undignified, and he wasn’t going to stoop as low as Tara. He refused to have anything that could be called a catfight.

He struggled to sit up, but Sarah’s had landed gently on his shoulder and began to check his temple.

“Don’t move,” she murmured, obviously using her hospital voice. “We need to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

Honestly, he didn’t have the energy to fight with people who wanted to help him.

~

John was almost ready for bed. Almost. But there was screaming down the hall, and pounding on the door, and somehow he didn’t feel too great about pulling on his robe and answering it. But he did anyway. He was polite like that.

Emily stood in front of him, with Lucy sobbing on her shoulder.

“Sherlock and Tara are fighting,” Emily rushed to explain, grabbing him sharply and pulling him along with her, while still keeping Lucy on her shoulder. John tried to shake himself awake and listen to her. And not the screaming. “It’s never been this bad before, do you think you can break it up?”

“Fighting? Why?” John really didn’t have the brain power to deal with this. For fuck’s sake, does no one sleep in this place?

“They’ve never gotten along,” Emily mumbled. Something sort of clicked. And he felt the panic surge for a moment. Was this going to be bad? “She made a few nasty comments and kind of lost it when Sherlock said something back.”

Lucy sobbed really loudly right then, so John put a comforting hand on her shoulder. At least, he hoped it was comforting. She just kept shaking. This was definitely bad.

“Right, then. Let me at them.” He got through the door to see Sherlock bruised and bloody on the floor, with Sarah hovering over him, and Tara being held back by Jennifer and Laura and Andrea, clawing wildly to get free.

“You fucking faggot,” she was screaming. “I fucking hate you!”

Bad might not have been a strong enough word. The panic hit a climax and turned into a very eerie calm. He needed to fix this.

“ALRIGHT,” John yelled in his best military voice, all authority and confidence — in appearance, at least. “I think it’s time we calm down!”

Everyone froze. Even Sherlock. Even Tara, though she still looked enraged. She certainly didn’t look apologetic. And he didn’t feel much better towards her. Sherlock was injured and she was screaming hateful things. Right now? He didn’t even want to see her.

“I don’t even want to know what’s going on here,” John said, absolutely truthful and horribly disappointed. He knew he would have to find out, but for now, he just wanted some peace. “Tara, get to bed and stay there. I don’t want you or Sherlock near each other.”

She seemed to listen for a moment, though she wasn’t pleased about it. Tara shook herself free and stomped out of the room with a flourish, taking the tension in the room with her. The other girls sighed and shook out tired arms, while Sarah helped Sherlock to his feet. John let the calm dissipate and the panic surge back in as he watched them regroup.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock grumbled, keeping his arms out of reach. “Tired, and angry, and fine.”

“You’re sure? She was hitting pretty hard.” Sarah had checked him briefly for breaks and now had two fingers against his bleeding temple, feeling around for serious injury. Sherlock’s side hurt, but worse was his injured pride. John really had to see that? After such a good night?

John had scrambled over, but let Sarah finish her check up. “You alright?”

“Yes, just slow reflexes.” Sherlock shrugged, embarrassed. “And a bad angle. I should be better able to defend myself than that.”

“But he was gentlemanly enough not hit back,” Sarah added. “Even though he probably could have taken her down, easily.”

“I don’t have to stoop to her level,” Sherlock grumbled. He rubbed his head. With a sigh, he asked, even though he knew the answer. “Any major damage?”

“No, just some scratches, bruising, and a bit of a bump. You don’t seem to have a concussion either,” Sarah assessed. “I’d say you’re fine.”

John looked so relieved it was almost shameful. Was he really so pathetic that John had to worry that much? Over a little bitch like Tara?

“If no one minds, then, I’d like to go to bed.” He stopped mid-turn, reconciling himself with a confession. “Ah, thank you both, though. I appreciate the concern.”

He did look like he appreciated it, John thought as Sherlock slipped out the door and into his room. John could see a bruise forming on his temple and a slight limp — sheltering his side, it looked like. Definitely injured, even though it wasn’t serious. He trusted Sarah, but he was worried and he was definitely going to make sure Sherlock was okay tomorrow. First, he’d let him sleep. Then he could prod him about bruises. John figured that Sherlock was at least as tired as he was. It had been a long night, even though it was a good one.

He wasn’t happy with playing detective at four in the morning, but he needed to know what had happened. He was worried and disappointed and upset that something like this had happened. Despite not wanting to care right then. What he had just heard was not alright, and he planned to fix it.

Fortunately, Sarah was a great unbiased source. And there wasn’t really a better person to ask right now, who wasn’t crying. So he asked her. “What just happened?”

Sarah smiled weakly. Laura was creeping over to listen too. “Well, this is about three weeks’ worth of hatred in one fight. They haven’t got along since the beginning.”

“Has it always been like this?” John asked, rubbing at his eyes. He wanted to go to sleep so badly.

“Yes. Tara starts it, Sherlock retaliates, they have a fight. This one was just bigger than usual.” She held John’s eyes. “It’s been really stressful for some of the girls.”

Well, fuck. Yet another thing to deal with in the morning. Here he was, hoping to go to bed and wonder about how great it was to walk without a cane again and panic a little over the fact that he had kissed a man and really liked it. Now he had to break up catfights. Perfect.

“Did you see everything that happened?” John sighed.

“No, I came in at the end. But I can ask the other girls in the morning, if you need me to?”

John silently thanked the heavens for Sarah. She had just made this process so much easier.

“I’d really like that. I need to know what’s going on.” He gave her a hug in gratitude.

“Tara’s a bitch, is what happened,” Laura snapped, obviously unhappy. “Please tell me she’s not getting away with this kind of shit?”

“Is she always this bad?” John asked, a twinge of panic seeping back into his voice. Sarah was soothing. He wasn’t so sure talking with the other women would be as comforting.

“Yes.” Laura was emphatic.

“Well, she’s always nasty to him,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I wouldn’t say always this bad. But it’s been growing.”

Laura shrugged. “She’s awful. Sherlock can be annoying and mean, but he’s not insulting people without a reason.”

John sighed. He was tired and there was suddenly so much to do. “It’s okay. I’ll handle it. Just call me if she starts anything again?”

Laura nodded softly, possibly sensing his exhaustion. Sarah put a hand on his shoulder, and walked him to the door. “Nothing’s going to happen before tomorrow. We’ll keep them apart. Get some sleep, John.”

He smiled softly, overwhelmingly grateful. Sarah knew just what to say. “Thanks.”

She smiled back. “Good night, John.”

~

“I just wanted it to stop,” Lucy wailed. “Why do we have to fight like that? She didn’t have to hit him, she didn’t have to say any of that. None of the rest of us scream insults at each other.”

She wiped roughly at her eyes. “I’m just is glad Emily was there. She’s so calm.”

~

“Well, that was ridiculous,” Emily muttered. “Maybe I should run a meditation class in the mornings? We could obviously use a little more control and a little more Zen in here.”

~

“I hope John listens to my side,” Tara sighed, dramatically. “It looks a lot worse than it was. I was completely provoked, beyond expectations.”

She wiped an imaginary tear.

“He can’t expect us to be perfect, all the time, can he? I’m only human. I’m not sure I can take his insults anymore.”

~

“Faggot-whore,” Sherlock mused, looking haggard. “I not only collect wood but I also sell my body for money? Perhaps collecting sticks wasn’t enough, so I had to supplement my income?”

He shot a look at the camera. No emotion, a trickle of blood drying on his bruised temple. Really, he looked like shit.

“Can I go to bed now?”

~

John knocked on Steve’s door before he went back to bed. Someone had to deal with it. And he wasn’t waking Dave up at four in the morning, only to have to wake Steve up. He knew the host would just send him over to the producer. So he might as well go straight to the top.

“John?” Steve grumbled, obviously not happy, standing in the door wearing a rumpled bathrobe. “What the hell is going on?”

“You slept through the screaming?” John asked, incredulous. He supposed he shouldn’t be.

“Did someone die?” Steve asked, bluntly.

“No, but Tara’s got a hate crime and assault charge coming her way,” John snapped back. He was scared and worried and not in the mood to be yelled at.

“Alright, great. Great material. You want to let the drama build for another week or two?” Steve shuffled from foot to foot, looking tired and nonchalant.

“Are you telling me to let it continue?” John felt a little bit horrified.

“John, I’ve seen worse. If no one died, and no one’s in the hospital, it’s not an emergency. We can kick her out of you want, or you can do it. Whatever you want.” Steve shrugged. “But if you want me to do something, come back in the fucking morning.”

“Fine,” John snapped, and watched the door close sharply.

Fine. If they wanted him to deal with it, he would. Not like he expected much better from them. But he had expected _something_.

Now it was his problem. Again. But he couldn’t leave things like this. Sherlock deserved more respect as a human being than that. And John’s morality was railing in protest. There wouldn’t be any more fights, if John had a say in things.

And he did.

~

“I come back from a phenomenal date, and this is what I get?” John griped at the camera. He knew he had to say something. “I’m disappointed. In a lot of people. This isn’t the kind of behaviour I want to see in anyone I consider a friend, much less someone who might be my fiancée.”

~

The girls all stiffened when Tara walked by. No one said anything for a moment, and everyone avoided eye contact with her. Tara didn’t flinch. She walked confidently with the pride of someone who knew they had done something distasteful but didn’t care to fix it. At the very least, she wasn’t going to apologize.

But she didn’t stay long. In, grab breakfast, back to her room. She knew better than to try and make small talk.

A sigh dissipated throughout the room.

“Do you think Sherlock’s okay?” Jennifer asked, voice a bit more hushed than usual. “It’s almost eleven and he’s still not up.”

“He’s alright,” Sarah reassured. “He was pretty scratched up, but nothing major.”

“And he did come in at four,” Laura added with a roll of her eyes. “After the fight, and getting himself bandaged up? Let him sleep.”

“You’re just happy to have the telly to yourself,” Lucy said with a smile. She settled down on the couch beside Laura.

“That I most certainly am.”

“Well as long as we’re sure she didn’t kill him,” Jennifer sighed. “I mean, who _does_ that? She works in the modeling industry for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, you’d think she’d run across a gay man once in a while,” Lucy said with a snort. “Apparently not.”

“Maybe it’s because they’re both after John?” Andrea shrugged. “I mean, we’re all after John. And he doesn’t come off as gay, but he does seem to like Sherlock, and really? I know that sits badly with more than one of us.”

She looked pointedly at Lucy, who sniffed.

“I don’t have an issue with Sherlock,” Lucy sighed. “I mean, not in particular. I just want John all to myself.”

Sarah smiled softly. “Fair enough, I think. He is an incredible man.”

“Yeah, he is,” Lucy smiled back.

Emily walked in stretching her arms above her head. She stopped. “I thought I heard some sappiness coming from this area. Does that mean it’s peaceful in here?”

“For now,” Andrea sighed. “Tara’s avoiding us, and Sherlock’s still sleeping.”

“Good,” Emily said quietly. “Sleep helps heal. Physically, anyway. Anyone want to join my meditation this morning? Get rid of some stress?”

“Do I have to ‘ooooooooooohm?’” Jennifer asked. “I could use some mental clearing, but not at the sake of my dignity.”

“No ‘ohms’ involved,” Emily promised. “And no rampant homophobia either.”

“Sounds amazing,” Jennifer said, stretching as she stood up. “Show me what to do.”

~

“Alright, if that’s what you want to do,” Steve agreed cheerfully. He was already moving away. “We could deal with it, but if you’d rather handle the conflict, I think it’ll be better.”

“I thought you weren’t going to do anything?” John griped, loudly. Steve tutted.

“Early morning grumbles. I’m more reasonable after a coffee.” Steve walked him over to the door. Slowly pushing him out of the way. “I’m glad we’ve come to a solution.”

John listened to the door close behind him. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or just exasperated. Anger almost seemed like too much effort anyway. He had enough shit to do without being furious with his producers as well. Like taking care of this whole situation. Like worrying about the fact that he had spent half the night fretting over whether or not Sherlock was alright.

He found himself wandering back to his room. There really wasn’t anywhere else to go. He had hours before the cocktail party started, and honestly, he was still tired and his head was still spinning a bit.

He opened the door, walked across the short distance to the bed and listened to it slam as he flopped onto his unfamiliar covers. In an unfamiliar room. Dealing with unfamiliar feelings.

Well, he supposed confusion wasn’t that unfamiliar. Sometimes he felt like half his life was spent on puzzling things out. It was the sexual part of the confusion that was strange.

He still felt horrible for Sherlock. He hadn’t even really been there to see what happened. But the sight of blood and bruises had turned his stomach. It had been terrifying. And the girls seemed to think it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault.

Which was horrible and unfair to anyone, but there was something even worse about it being Sherlock. This wonderful, handsome, solitary man should be untouchable. John wanted to put him on a pedestal. Make him an exception. Because right now, he was John’s exception. He had to be. If he wasn’t, John was going to have to reshape his whole identity.

But Sherlock was. In a multitude of ways. He was possibly the most intelligent person John would ever meet. Genuinely intelligent, not ‘smart in his own field but has no common sense’ intelligent, like so many people he had met in uni. Sherlock’s brain worked almost on a different plane of intelligence from the rest of the world. And he was gorgeous. John wasn’t blind. He knew a handsome man when he saw one.

He was here to get married. Not experiment. Out of all the pretty girls here, why was he gravitating towards Sherlock?

It didn’t make sense. He liked Sarah a lot, and she was the girl he’d always dreamed of dating. He wasn’t going to pass up dates with her, ever. His date with Karen had gone amazingly well, and he definitely wanted another date. Lucy, Laura, Stephanie — there were a lot of girls he wanted to take out on dates and show around Europe.

But he also wanted to take Sherlock. To the point where he was wondering when it would be acceptable to take him out one-on-one again. He wasn’t supposed to be having amazing dates with a man. He hadn’t even expected amazing dates with the _women_.

He was sure the producers were expecting Sherlock to go home. Probably soon. He wasn’t a serious candidate.

And something odd churned in John’s stomach. He wasn’t a serious candidate. Wasn’t supposed to be.

Why the hell was John even considering it?

~

Sherlock had lain in bed most of the day the next day. By the time he’d managed to roll out, inspect his head and the deep scratches to his shoulder, and then get dressed, it was almost time for the cocktail party. He and the other women shuffled down to the ballroom, to mingle.

Unsurprisingly, Tara didn’t bother joining in the chatter. She had taken a drink and nursed it off at the side of the room. No one seemed to mind, though no one said anything about the incident. It was just swept under the rug, until John dealt with it.

Providing John _did_ deal with it. He might not.

It had taken him about ten minutes to get the scrape on his temple cleaned up. The blood had started oozing again during the night, and he had woken up to a bit of dried blood on the pillow, and a crust of it in his hairline. Between washing the blood out of the pillowcase — no DNA traces for him, thank you — and properly cleaning the wound so it didn’t get infected, he hadn’t had much time to actually address his bruise.  He was highly aware of the purplish spot slinking across his forehead and on his cheek. Especially since he was asked about it every few moments.

Tara sniffed daintily as she brushed past on the way to drinks. Jennifer shot her a nasty look.

“Did you sleep alright?” she asked, cautiously. Jennifer seemed inordinately fond of him. He didn’t like it. But that was probably coming from his natural hostility. He shrugged in response. “Well, we’re all sleeping with one eye open for you. So don’t worry about getting some rest.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock replied. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. Small talk wasn’t his thing on the best of days, and throbbing headache with little sleep was not exactly a best-day type of situation.

Fortunately for him, John was feeling merciful. The man of the hour sidled up and took Sherlock’s hand.

“Is it alright if I borrow him for a moment?” He asked politely, his smile a little shakier than normal. John looked tired. Unsurprisingly.

“Only if you take care of him,” Jennifer laughed. “Sorry he’s in such rough shape.”

Sherlock felt his hackles rise. He could speak for himself, and he didn’t like these women treating him like glass. He wasn’t a porcelain doll.

“He’ll come back in one piece,” John promised. Sherlock felt his hand squeeze.

“Lead away,” he sighed. He wasn’t about to take his annoyance out on John. It wasn’t John’s fault that he was being babied by the women.

John dragged him out to the traditional couch and coffee table set up, probably left there just for this purpose.

“You’re alright?” was the very first question out of his mouth, even before they had sat down.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock grumped. The bruise wasn’t _that_ bad. “She’s stick thin — you really think she has enough strength to do damage?”

John looked a bit sheepish. “Well, no, but she did leave quite the bruise.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock sighed. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, but the purplish mark on his cheek was a mark of shame for him. He should have been faster. “She was pretty furious with me, plus, sadly, she happens to wear several rings. I’m surprised she didn’t do worse.”

“I’m glad she didn’t.” John was concerned. That innocently furrowed brow didn’t have to be so genuine. It disturbed him to know that John actually, really was glad. Why did he always have to be so kind about things?

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured. He didn’t know what else to say. And then John was holding his hand and he had that confused, mixed feeling again. Why didn’t he hate this? Why didn’t he take his hand away? Or smoothly try to get out of any and all physical contact like he did every other time? These questions made his overtired brain groan under the workload, and he resolved to answer them later or never — whatever suited him best.

“You don’t have to thank me for being worried,” John chuckled and squeezed his hand tighter. He couldn’t imagine anything more ridiculous. You were supposed to worry about people you liked, right?

And that right there, was a kettle of fish he needed to open. Right now. With Sherlock.

“Nonetheless, thank you.” Sherlock may have been blushing. Or it could have been the bruise. Both were quite possible.

“You’re welcome.” John had bigger things to talk about. He needed to stop stalling. “Ah, um, sorry if I’ve been...pressuring you. I think I might have been too forward last night.”

“What?” Sherlock’s face twisted painfully and he winced. “You mean the kiss?”

“Ah, yes.” And now they were avoiding each other’s gaze. Good job being awkward, John. “I know you’re married to your work, and, um, if I’m getting in the way...”

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock cut him off. “I know you have to. You don’t have to apologize.”

That hadn’t been where John was going at all. In fact, that was the opposite direction. Why did these conversations always feel like a tennis game of misunderstanding? Oh, ball’s in John’s court! His turn to be confused. Where did they keep missing the mark?

“It wasn’t for the production,” John mumbled, awkwardly. He wanted to get the truth out. “It felt right. I’m not sure where that fits for either of us and I don’t want to overstep any boundaries. I might be pushing you too far. And I don’t want to do that.”

 While he said it John looked down and noticed their hands still together. The other man’s fingers were long, thin, and seemingly fragile in his hand, John was almost afraid he’d squeeze too tight and it would crush into porcelain dust. With that thought, he knew he was at the edge of something that he wasn’t ready to deal with. But right now he wasn’t sure if he cared. He was doing what felt right.

Sherlock meanwhile was cursing his fair skin. Even with bruising, he was pretty sure he had just gone beet red. “You’re not.”

“Good.” John relaxed a bit in his seat. He really didn’t want to have to worry about this. Especially since Sherlock’s date had been one of the most exhilarating dates he’d had so far.

“But thank you for thinking about it.” Sherlock felt himself fret. His free hand twisted in the couch fabric. John planted a kiss on his cheek, very quickly.

“You’re welcome.” John’s free hand ran up Sherlock’s cheek and temple very clinically. A finger prodded through his hair and landed right on the scrape. Sherlock crushed his yelp but couldn’t supress the way he jumped at the pain. “She really got you, didn’t she?”

“That _hurts_ ,” Sherlock whined. “Do you have to prod it like that?”

“I’m just checking it out.” He pulled his hand back, though. And brought his finger in front of Sherlock’s nose. “Watch my finger.”

Side to side, closer and further back. Checking to see if his eyes dilated. Obviously they did. Sherlock would know if he had a concussion by now.

“Shouldn’t you have done this last night?” John blushed.

“Yes, probably. I trust Sarah, but there’s something more real about checking for yourself.” John shrugged and brought his hands back into his lap. Sherlock almost missed them.

“And you need reality in this fantasy, do you?”

John’s answer was a little reticent and embarrassed. The small quirk of a smile Sherlock was giving him made him wonder if he maybe _had_ just managed to ignore being gay for almost thirty years. Or if it was just Sherlock. He wasn’t sure which idea was more surreal.

“More than I would like to admit.”

Sherlock’s smile faded. “So, ask me about Tara.”

“What?”

“Tara.” Sherlock shrugged. “I know you need to ask. You’re a fair man, and you’re probably going to drill each of us on the details.”

John tried to control his dumbstruck face. Sherlock wasn’t telepathic, but damn if he couldn’t read minds some days. It was more of a talent than the detective let on.

“Well, yes. But we don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.” He didn’t. He had made up his mind last night, even if he was going to try and be fair about the whole thing.

“ _Ask_ , John. I know you want to know.” Sherlock rolled his shoulders, laced his fingers, and settled back into the couch. “Where do you want to start?”

“Who started it?” John asked, slowly. “Or, well, what happened?”

“Tara has been accusing me of ‘sucking your cock’ — her words, not mine — since the first night. She phrased it as humour at first, but I insulted her back, and we’ve been verbally battling it out ever since. Apparently I’ve struck a nerve.” Sherlock relayed everything without emotion and without moving. John hunched forward.

“What did you say?”

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock started slowly. “Whatever hurt the most, really. I’ve picked on her legs, her choice of profession, her lack of bravery. She was very much aiming to hurt me, so I aimed to kill as well.”

John wasn’t sure how he felt about that. That really hadn’t been what he wanted to hear. A part of him wanted Sherlock to be blameless and innocent. He wanted to be able to hate Tara and be disgusted with her without understanding how she could be like that. Now, he wasn’t sure he could.

“Why?” he asked, quietly.

“Honestly? She’s a homophobic bitch.” Sherlock’s eyes were open again, peering at John. He abruptly sat up and leaned closer. “Every single one of her insults revolved around my supposed sexuality and how I deserved to die because I might _want_ to suck your cock.  Much like she does herself and — judging by her attitude towards it and some of the issues it seems to bring up — may have done for jobs in the past. People like that don’t change, John. They just hate and hate until someone comes along for them to blow up at. I happened to be her explosion.”

Somehow, John felt better. That sounded more like the Sherlock he knew. More like the person he was maybe, sort of falling in love with. “So you took the explosion rather than someone else?”

“Nothing so noble,” Sherlock scoffed. “I goaded her because she was providing entertainment. Watching someone implode is delicious entertainment. Their changes in psyche and attitude are fascinating. Nothing heroic or self-sacrificing about it.”

Well. That did sound like Sherlock. John should probably be glad that it wasn’t someone more dangerous he had pushed to the edge.

“Tell me you won’t bait people like that again?” he asked, softly. “I don’t like seeing you banged up.”

Sherlock gave him an odd look. “I promise nothing. But I’ll try.”

“Thanks,” John sighed.

~

“I’m really glad I got to talk to you tonight,” Tara sighed. “I think I need to explain myself after last night.”

“I certainly think you do,” John replied. He was trying to be open-minded, he really was. But his tolerance for hate speech was very, very low. He had watched Harry go through college. And got into it with more than one kid for lesser insults than the ones Tara had been using.

“He’s said some really mean things, lately,” Tara fumbled. “And I mean, really, just not alright.”

John watched a tear drip down her cheek. He didn’t move closer.

“What kind of things?” he asked.

“He called me fat, and a whore, and a coward, and...” She flinched at her own pause, staring at her feet. “Last night, I just broke. I don’t understand what you see in him.”

John hated that he could see where that cruelty came from. He had heard Sherlock’s sarcastic and demeaning side first hand. It wasn’t exactly hidden. But it also wasn’t unnaturally cruel. Demeaning, yes. Oh definitely, yes. But somehow that wasn’t the same as unprovoked cruelty. Maybe it was too early for him to know, but as of yet he had never seen Sherlock be nasty without a reason.

Even if that reason was the incredibly high standards he expected people to live up to. He wasn’t quite sure who wasn’t stupid compared to Sherlock.

That still wasn’t unfounded cruelty.

“I understand,” John said quietly. He had his doubts.  “But I still don’t think that level of...hatred is acceptable.”

“I’m sorry,” Tara whispered. “I’ll try to control myself next time.”

~

“She actually made a quip about him ‘sucking your cock,’ if what I hear from the other girls is correct,” Sarah said, looking slightly reluctant at the choice of words. “She’s done that a few times, whenever she gets a bit jealous, so I’m not too surprised.”

“Has he been taunting her as well?” John asked, reserved. He didn’t want to take one side or another.

“Oh, definitely. But usually in response to something much worse,” she added. “Last night, he might have called her a coward, but she was throwing around death threats first.”

“What?” John’s head whipped up sharply. “She said what, exactly?”

“I believe she threatened to drag him behind a pickup truck.” Sarah was wincing. “Honestly, it was pretty brutally disgusting, and disturbingly graphic. I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t gotten violent before this.”

“Wow.” John wasn’t sure how else to respond. “No one thought to mention this sooner?”

Sarah sighed heavily. “I think it’s a case of everyone letting someone else do it. I would have mentioned it, but I didn’t see most of it firsthand.”

“Well, thank you for telling me,” John whispered softly. “I really can’t thank you enough for being honest about it.”

“Never a problem, John,” Sarah responded, with a soft smile. “It’s your future at stake. I would want you to know.”

Rather than responding, he kissed her, as sweetly as he could.

~

Sherlock and the women shuffled into their lines, waiting for the rose ceremony to start. Dave and John were already there.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Dave announced, looking calmer than most of the participants, “John is ready to make his choices. Sherlock, Tara, and Anna, you’re safe for tonight.” He gestured at the rose tray. “There are eleven roses here. That means two of you will be going home. Good luck to you all.”

As he disappeared, John walked towards the group.

“Actually, we have one thing before I start calling names,” John said calmly, before walking straight up to Tara. “I know what’s going on now, and I have to say you haven’t been honest. I can’t stand to hear that kind of hatred being flung around, especially unprovoked. And I know you know exactly what I am talking about.”

Tara didn’t say anything in response. John didn’t expect she would.

He reached out, and plucked the rose from her hand.

“You’re picking the fag?” she audibly whispered. John scowled.

“I’m picking equality,” he replied, waspishly.

By the time he had returned to his tray, the shock was starting to dissipate. There were wide-eyed stares, and a horrified gape from Tara. The gape only lasted a minute though, before she gathered up her skirt, and stalked out — no word to anyone.

“Score one for the fag,” Sherlock said, a bit of maniacal pleasure seeping through with a short laugh.

Tara flipped him off and kept walking. Or stomping. John really wasn’t sure how she could walk so heavily and not break her high heels.

  “Sherlock,” John sighed, hand to his forehead, rubbing away the headache. “I’m letting that slide because you got the raw end of the deal. But please, please control yourself.”

Sherlock looked intently at the ground. Yet, somehow, he didn’t look entirely ashamed.

“Let’s get this started then, shall we?” John asked. After that, the rose ceremony was quick. Sarah, Amelia, Karen, Stacy, Emily, Laura, Cecelia, Jennifer, Andrea. Lucy. Adele.

And Stephanie.

Which left Ellen, going home. She didn’t seem too upset about it.

~

“I’m not sure John and I work together,” Ellen purred to the camera. “I mean, yes, it sucks to be going home, but I don’t think I’m disappointed. I’ll find someone.”

~

“The fags will be happy together, I’m sure,” Tara snarled. “John can go fuck himself with something nasty. Like Sherlock.”

She stood up roughly and started to walk away.

“I hope they fucking die.”

~

John sighed as he sat down heavily on the bed. That had been one fucking long week. One fucking long day. And now he got to sit on his bed, incredibly sleep deprived, and way too caught up in what was going on in his very tumultuous romantic life. Sarah was amazing. Just as expected. And trustworthy. She hadn’t made any protests about letting him know what was going on. Some of the other girls would have thrown a fit, but she hadn’t. He couldn’t even express how much he appreciated that.

And the other girls were great. Amelia was feisty, which he hadn’t expected, and Emily was level-headed, and Karen was honest and friendly. It was overwhelming how many nice women he was stuck with.

But then came Sherlock, and he wasn’t sure what to do with him. He had been walking and running without a cane. Every time he thought about it, there was a surge of victory. He had won, for a short period of time. Sherlock had short-circuited the part of his brain that was keeping him a cripple, and there was nothing to compare to that. It felt so amazing.

And Sherlock was smart, and demeaning, and eccentric, and exciting. And John liked it far more than he wanted to admit. He really didn’t consider himself gay. The fact that he had been okay with kissing Sherlock was very new and kind of scary. But he had enjoyed it, and Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, and he shouldn’t right? They both knew this was a romance show. It’s not like they both didn’t know that the end goal was an intimate relationship.

Could he handle that? Could Sherlock? Was it ever going to get that far anyway? He could just be fretting over nothing. And very likely was. But he wanted to be ready. He needed to know what he could and could not accept before this went further. And he needed someone to talk to that wasn’t incredibly biased.

Steve _had_ followed up on his promise to let him call Paul and Geoff. But between the restrictions of what he could say over the phone and the restrictions on what Paul and Geoff could say over the phone now that they were back on duty, all they had really talked about was the weather and whether or not he was having fun. It had been good to hear their voices, but not nearly as helpful as he’d hoped. Especially with Steve basically breathing down his neck. He wouldn’t be doing that again.

He wondered if he could write a letter to someone. Harry, maybe. Or Paul and Geoff. Possibly all three of them.

No, wait. Not Harry. She’d probably crow about him being secretly gay and say nothing at all useful.

He wasn’t secretly gay. He hoped. If he was, it had been a secret to him, too. But he did want to keep dating this wonderful man, as well as several wonderful women. And he wasn’t sure what that said about him.

 Bi? Possible, but it felt unlikely.

Confused? Most definitely.

Writing to Paul and Geoff would help, though. Even if he didn’t get a response, or couldn’t send it, it would be nice to think this through in writing. So he grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and started setting it down. A letter that required explanations that didn’t give away too much of what was happening. He had to work with the rules to be allowed to actually put it in the post. Which meant turning a quick letter into an expository essay — or at least, that much work.

He wondered if he would ever get a full night’s sleep.


	4. Episode Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Four - Madrid, Spain

Episode Four

 

They had been in Madrid for all of twenty minutes when Steve stopped by his room. That was a rare occurrence, to say the least. Usually all his instructions came straight through Dave.

“Just so you know, John,” Steve said very seriously, “you cannot invite Sherlock on any dates this week.”

“Why not?” John was maybe a little more forceful than he needed to be. Of course his mind was running straight to the worst assumptions. He was being too ‘gay’ for the show; Sherlock was getting too much air time; they needed to add some angst to their scheduled programming. Suggestions to ramp up drama were not appealing to him, and he didn’t really want to put Sherlock through that kind of emotional wringer. Especially not for ratings.

“Normally we wouldn’t allow it, but we’ve got a request directly from New Scotland Yard,” Steve grumbled. He did not look pleased, which assuaged some of John’s fears. “He’s required urgently for a few days, apparently.”

“So, he’s leaving? For work?” John puzzled. From what he could tell, Sherlock’s profession did have that kind of weight to it. But he had also seemed to imply that he could do what he wanted with himself.

“Yes. I’ve had promises that he’ll be back for the rose ceremony. In return, we have to not make a production of his leaving.”

“Well,” John said. He didn’t go anywhere with it, though. Where _could_ he go with it? If Sherlock had to work, then he had to work. “Alright, then.”

He suppressed the vague feeling of disappointment that agreement brought.

~

Mycroft was sitting in a chair in his room, umbrella in hand, when Sherlock arrived. He gently put his suitcase to the side and plopped down on the bed.

“And what would _you_ want?” he growled, none too friendly.

“I need you to come to London.” Ah, Mycroft. No asking, just a demand. Sitting there, unfazed, assuming that Sherlock would eventually give in. Because _Mycroft_ is _sooo_ important.

“No,” he replied simply. Not a chance. Absolutely not. Mycroft frowned.

“I’ve arranged for them to exclude you from the filming process for a week, and you can be back before the...rose ceremony, I believe they called it.” Mycroft had gotten the production company involved? Of course he had. Sherlock knew what this was about.

“This is for the Burns case, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Mycroft was being factual. And Sherlock was furious. There was no way he could not be.

“Then, I am absolutely not coming. I suggest you deal with those political intrigues yourself.” Sherlock got up and started to unpack.

“But you were interested before–” Mycroft protested, still trying to remain composed.

“And you pulled strings to get me on this stupid show because I was meddling.” Some clothes landed in a drawer and the drawer slammed after them.

“And Mummy thought it was a good idea.”

Sherlock spun. “That’s right, go suck up to Mummy. I’m sure she’ll love it. She always seems to. I intend to stay here.”

He wasn’t going to forgive Mycroft’s more malicious sense of humour because _Mummy_ liked the idea. Sherlock knew better. This was Mycroft’s idea of a prank. If he had been seriously annoyed with Sherlock’s meddling, Sherlock would have had a far more serious punishment. And possibly an impending trial.

“You weren’t so inclined three weeks ago.”

Mycroft’s mouth twisted ever so minutely as Sherlock’s shoes landed heavily beside his chair.

Sherlock had been so angry when this started. Mycroft had stuck his nose into one too many aspects of his life and getting rid of him for accidently stepping on his toes in this Burns case was a bit extreme. Normal people, he was sure, had fights or conversations when they got annoyed with their siblings. His shipped him off to be filmed.

And he knew why.

“You didn’t expect me to be here this long,” Sherlock snapped. “I was supposed to be gone for a week — or two, at most — and be back just in time to help you wrap this idiotic case up. After having learned some kind of twisted lesson, I’m sure. Well, congratulations, you were wrong.”

Mycroft stared at him, intently, like he was trying to figure out where his manipulations went wrong. Sherlock _hated_ that stare. Like he was just one of the many half-witted pawns that Mycroft pushed around on a daily basis. He wasn’t. He knew what game his brother was attempting to win at, and he refused to play. Instead, he went back to tossing clothes around. Unpacking. Whatever.

“You’re enjoying this...experience that much?” Mycroft asked. Almost quietly. He had one eyebrow raised, as if the pawn he was examining had suddenly decided to glue itself to the chessboard instead of capturing the king.

“I believe it’s called a vacation,” Sherlock snapped. He didn’t take vacations.

“You don’t take vacations,” Mycroft pointed out. Sherlock stopped and looked his brother in the eye.

“Well, consider this my first.” He was hoping an acidic tone — capable of melting human bones on contact — would put an end to this conversation. But no, he wasn’t that lucky.

“You’d pick this over international scandals?”

“It’s a fucking contract about trading with Russia. Only you care if something happens to it.” They held eye contact. Sherlock was _not_ going to lose this battle.

Sharply, Mycroft stood up, brushed his impeccable suit off, and strode towards the door. “I’ll ask again tomorrow, Sherlock.”

“Don’t bother!” Sherlock called after him.

~

“Where’s Sherlock?” Laura asked, as they all sat around the coffee table, waiting for the invitation. It was getting to be a routine.

“I have no idea,” Jennifer answered. “He should be here by now.”

“I apologize for my tardiness, then,” Sherlock said, gracefully taking his standard chair. He was amused by the fact that the women now purposefully left a chair available for him in approximately the same place in every room. “I take it we’re still waiting for the invitation?”

“Then your wait is over,” Dave flourished as he made his way to the front of the group. Sherlock really did envy his dramatic flair. His customary drop of the envelope on the table preceded his speech. “The beauties of Madrid await you, ladies. Though some of you will still be disappointed.”

Lucy had grabbed the envelope before anyone had moved. Again. There seemed to be a pattern, here.

“Amelia,” she read, calmly this time. “Let’s do our research on love.”

Library date. Well, Sherlock supposed he could live without that anyway. There were other libraries, just as impressive. Besides, he was positive that Mycroft had ensured the fact that he wouldn’t be on any of the Madrid dates. He may as well accept this fact immediately and with an overwhelming degree of bitterness.

Watching the women congratulate Amelia just made him feel crappy about being stuck here. Which was Mycroft’s plan, he was sure. Well, he wasn’t going to win this particular round. There was something to be said for sheer stubbornness. And Sherlock wasn’t about to lose to that bastard brother of his.

~

“I’m trying not to be such a downer this time,” Lucy sighed, at the camera. “It was hard last time, but he still gave me a rose. He’s not going to drop me without giving me a chance. Maybe I’ll get a one-on-one this time.”

~

“I’m excited,” Amelia proclaimed, smiling. “I’ve had fun on every date so far, and John is a great guy. I definitely want more time with him. As much time as I can get.”

She blushed for a moment before continuing. “Besides, research is totally my thing.”

~

Sherlock awoke the next day to his brother sitting in the same chair as the day before. How the hell does he do that? For a fat man, Mycroft seemed to be inordinately light on his feet.

“Fuck off,” he snapped, before rolling back over and pretending to sleep.

~

As soon as she got out of the car, Amelia ran straight up to John and wrapped him up in a hug. Being half-smothered by a short and energetic woman wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but it certainly was surprising. And before he could react much to the sentiment, she was standing back.

And grinning widely.

“Excited?” John asked, amused. He had worked hard to match the right girls with the right dates. It was nice to see his listening skills were paying off. “The way you talk about work, I thought you might be.”

“I can’t believe you actually listened to that,” Amelia laughed. “I babble about biology all the time, but I don’t think I’ve had a date actually remember what I do, before.”

“Biology research co-ordinator. Cambridge,” John recited, happily. “I don’t get a lot of time with each of you. The least I can do is remember what you say to me.”

“That’s a hell of a lot more than the average man.” Amelia had grabbed his hand, and was pulling him toward the looming Romanesque library. John quietly went with her. “I’m absolutely thrilled.”

“Good,” John laughed. “Maybe you can show me around the biology section.”

~

Sawing on his violin in protest, Sherlock had effectively enforced silence in the room with Beethoven. Very. Forceful. Beethoven. It was fabulous for drowning out annoying older brothers.

Unfortunately, Mycroft was being incredibly patient. And calm. Which probably meant that he really couldn’t do this _particular_ piece of deductive footwork on his own. Political reasons, most likely. It was always political reasons for Mycroft.

Sherlock didn’t care. He was not going to give in to pressure. Mycroft had put him here. Therefore, Mycroft could deal with the fact that he was here. He didn’t want to leave yet.

And he would think about that quasi-uncomfortable fact later. This was supposed to be entertaining — not pleasant.

“Sherlock, be reasonable,” Mycroft piped in during the pause between songs.

“If you had been reasonable to begin with, you wouldn’t have to bargain with me,” Sherlock retorted, pausing in his music. “And I refuse to do business with you.”

“Would you reconsider if I told you it has a connection to the Stranowski case from last year?”

Oh, Stranowski. Chasing smugglers had been somewhat interesting. But also somewhat typical. He mostly had just enjoyed outwitting their entire organization at the same time. And honestly, it wasn’t so delightful that he wanted to repeat the experience.

Now if Mycroft could pull out a serial killer, Sherlock would be genuinely tempted.

“No. I am not reconsidering, Mycroft.” He carefully placed his violin back in its case and locked it up. “I am here, for better or for worse, and you will have to find some other gopher to deal with your treaty problems.”

“Sherlock, I _won’t_ take no for an answer.” Mycroft stood abruptly, blocking Sherlock’s exit route. His face was flushing, and the white line of his collar stood out against the red skin of his neck. Sherlock smirked. “This is important and your assistance is vital. You’re going to be stuck in this hotel all week, regardless, so be _reasonable_. Please.”

“Ooo, a ‘please’? From the great Mycroft? I think I might faint.” Sarcasm always worked wonders in sibling fights. Or at least made him feel better. He crossed his arms. “But, no. I am staying here, regardless of boredom and hotel rooms.”

“But _why_?” Mycroft was whining. Sherlock _hated_ when he whined.

“Out of principle,” he growled, through gritted teeth. “If for no other reason than you don’t _deserve_ my help.”

Tension mounted for a few silent seconds as Mycroft held his pout. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, searching for a failing to exploit — something to make Mycroft crumple before he got his hands on anything more. Mycroft was doing the exact same thing, but more subtly. Sherlock never really felt the need to hide his arguments.

His heart dropped a little when Mycroft’s expression shifted. He had something. And there was nothing — _nothing_ — for Sherlock to repartee with.

“That’s only a small part of the reason,” Mycroft declared, eyes glinting. “I know you better than that, little brother.”

Sherlock loathed that belittling tone. He also loathed that Mycroft was probably right. And he most certainly loathed the fact that he couldn’t avoid this half-acknowledged reality.

“The reasoning neither matters nor is any of your business, thank you,” Sherlock snarled. His skin crawled at even that small admission to ulterior motives. Simply put, he was too furious to lie and too involved to deny it. Knowing that he wanted to stay was enough pressure on his cognitive rhythms without having to lie about it. But he was going to keep steadfastly refusing to analyze the reasons for as long as possible.

Mycroft just stood there, taking him in, his eyes trying to grasp all the things Sherlock knew he was seeing. The defensiveness in his body language. The irrationality of his decision. The fluctuations in his tone of voice. Even what he had been playing on the violin. He could see it just as easily as Mycroft could, but he couldn’t grasp it — Mycroft had always been better at understanding the introspection of human interaction.

“Ah,” Mycroft hummed quietly. His eyes softened. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Sherlock couldn’t _stand_ that knowing glint. He would never stoop to asking Mycroft what he knew — that was that. But the insult pushed him over the edge of frustration. He shoved past Mycroft, stomping out the door and slamming it behind him.

He was trying very hard not to notice Mycroft’s sudden passiveness. Or the thoughtful look on his face. He wasn’t giving his brother the benefit of this victory, no matter how hard won it would be.

~

They glided down a beautiful pair of marble staircases towards a rich hardwood floor, desks and bookshelves filling the space below. The library was fabulous, and everything was going _very_ well.

Though, John _had_ spent a lot of the date feeling somewhat stupid. He liked books, he loved the library — especially the library aesthetic. After all, he’d spent most of university in one. But his feeling paled in comparison to Amelia’s adoration. She could go up to a book, simply flip through it, and give the impression that she was memorizing its every detail.

Fortunately for him they had mostly been talking about Spanish culture, which they seemed to be on equal footing about.

“Do they still hold bullfights, here?” Amelia asked, quietly. They had so far managed to escape notice from the librarians, though John doubted that they had anything to worry about. The production staff took care of those kinds of details. “I know it’s outlawed in some places, but not Madrid?”

“They definitely have bullfights.” John cringed slightly at the memory of his conversation with the producers. “It was actually suggested that I take one of you to see the fighting.”

“Are you going to?” She sounded alarmed.

“No, I told them that was a terrible idea. I prefer something a little tamer.”

Amelia giggled. “You only look tame. Dates with you are exciting.”

John smiled at that. At the very least, he was impressing one girl. “I think the deck is stacked in my favour, in that regard. There’s a whole production team set out to make things interesting for me.”

“It’s still nice to spend time with you.” Amelia slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. John’s smile softened. He hoped it was good to spend time with him. He was trying to make this whole experience less miserable for everyone involved. And if that meant that the women thought he was Romeo for a little while? He could live with that. He just hoped whoever he brought home with him wasn’t expecting something he wasn’t.

~

The living room was Sherlock’s haven. Mycroft wouldn’t step in front of a camera — his brother wouldn’t dare risk that. Not for anything. Anonymity was Mycroft’s greatest power.

There was an old console gaming system sitting on the coffee table when Sherlock arrived. Nintendo 64, a cartridge-based gaming system, and a few scattered games with it - _Super Mario 64, NFL 2000,_ a basketball game, baseball, and _Mario Kart 64._ Interesting. It had obviously been treated roughly: the plastic was cracked on the corner of the console itself and the two gray controllers were darkened on the hand grips — obviously no one had bothered to clean this unit. He suspected it had been left here by the previous hotel visitor.

“Found that in one of the drawers,” Laura started, not taking her eyes off of her soap opera. “Someone must have left it here.”

“Does it still work?” Sherlock asked, purely out of curiosity. The cartridges didn’t look oxidized, so it probably did. But it was always best to try something like this.

“Dunno,” Laura responded, still not looking at him. “And don’t bother trying. The telly is mine for at least another hour.”

Right. Sherlock wasn’t really in the mood for a fight for the remote. He had smuggled one book away with him, and he honestly just wanted to not have to look at his brother. Again. Ever. At least Laura’s stupid program didn’t infuriate him.

Besides, watching her scream when he spoiled the plot was always priceless.

~

“Amelia’s real strength is how intellectual she is,” John chattered at the camera. He felt a bit silly reflecting on these dates _to_ something or someone, but it wasn’t a hard task once he had gotten used to it. “She made something as simple as a walk through the library really interesting, and she always has something to talk about. We really had a great time.”

~

“I was really nervous, waiting for dinner,” Amelia confessed. “The closer it got, the more nervous I was. I think might have babbled a bit.”

She blushed.

“John didn’t seem to mind, but it’s so embarrassing to lose composure like that. Even a little bit. I like him a lot. I don’t want to leave a bad impression.”

~

“I mean, I just enjoy Spanish culture so much,” Amelia continued. John nodded, as he had for the last few minutes. Ever since dinner had started, Amelia had gotten chattier and chattier. Like she was trying to make something happen sooner by talking faster. He didn’t really mind, but watching her nervousness build up was kind of amusing. Not that he would have felt that way if he were on her end. “I’ve always wanted to come to Madrid, and it’s just as beautiful as I expected. I couldn’t have asked for more. Don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” John piped in. He smiled as she barreled forward.

“And that library was just so huge and gorgeous and full of learning. I can’t believe you took me somewhere that great. I mean, it was perfect. This whole day was perfect. It’s just what I thought I date would be. And it was so beautiful, I can’t believe it.”

“I thought it suited you,” John replied, trying not to seem too amused. She was smiling too, though.

“You’re so sweet!” she gasped, hands twisting together. “How did you get to be so sweet? It’s just–”

“Miss?” The waiter cut her off. “Would you like to order?”

“Oh, of course.” Amelia was turning red, but she started to order. Immediately after their waiter left, John picked up the rose. He might as well put an end to her fretting, since he had a convenient interruption, anyway. If things went on like this much longer, he might not get another chance.

Amelia had gone silent.

“I really enjoyed our date today,” he said quietly. It had been a good day. Not the best date, but certainly a very good one. And Amelia had obviously enjoyed every second, which made all the trouble worth it to John. “It was great to have you here and to explore together.”

She waited silently, and he thought maybe he saw a tear in her eye.

“Would you accept this rose?” He offered it to her. She reached over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Of course. Of course.”

~

“I am so incredibly bored,” Sherlock moaned at the confessional camera. “BORED. There is nothing to do, and there will be nothing to do, and I’m going to be stuck here all week. How do you people deal with this level of monotony? What must it be like in your tiny brains?”

He glared at the camera, then shook his head, disgusted.

“I’m so bored that I’ve opted to talk to inanimate objects. I almost miss Tara. At least she was interesting.” He threw up his hands and gave an exasperated look at the ceiling. “And now I’m disgusted with myself as _well_ as being bored, for even thinking that. Seriously, how do you people _cope_ with this?”

He didn’t receive an answer from the cameraman. Not like he expected to. But he had been hoping. There was some possibility that someone might respond to him, if he railed enough. No such luck, today.

He sighed heavily.

“Fine. I suppose you win. If anyone has a murder case to solve or something even remotely engaging for a functioning intellect, I will be in the living room. Bored. To. Tears.”

~

“Sherlock,” Jennifer said, stopping beside his chair, “is everything okay? You’ve been acting odd today.”

Damn it. He hated when people were perceptive. And he wasn’t about to admit that he was avoiding his meddling brother and very annoyed that he was being treated like a commodity that came to Mycroft’s beck and call. And annoyed with himself for staying and not wanting to leave even though staying meant he was stuck here with _nothing to do_.

Jennifer ignored his silence. “I know we’re all stressed out. It’s kinda part of the deal.” She patted him gently on the shoulder. “You’ll be alright, okay? Perk up. He likes you.”

Ew. Physical contact. His stomach turned even more with her comment. ‘He likes you.’ Really? Did he come off as one of these nervous, weepy, desperate twits? Reasonably he knew Jennifer didn’t mean it that way, but the notion repulsed him nonetheless. Sherlock wasn’t worried about whether or not John liked him. That was a trivial matter at the moment. The problem would be with _why_ he liked _John_.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, not sure why he was thanking her. Perk up? What kind of advice is that? Just ignore it and be happy! Everything goes away if you don’t think about it, right? “I’ll be fine.”

“Good, because the invitation for tomorrow is coming soon. You should come see if you’re on it.” She smiled and patted his shoulder once more before heading away.

She was right, of course. He should at least fake enthusiasm if he was going to be stuck here. And they were getting ready for invites. All the girls had gathered to their usual seats on the couch. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited.

“Ladies, and gentleman,” the traditional announcement sang out in Dave’s voice. Sherlock allowed his eyes to flutter open and watch the host’s delivery. “I’ve brought an invitation for you.”

Quick tonight, Sherlock noticed. Very quick. Not a good sign for people avoiding their rooms. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be stuck verbally fencing with Mycroft again.

Lucy had grabbed the invitation. As usual. “Jennifer, Sarah, _Lucy_ , Stacy, Adele, Cecilia, Andrea, Laura,” she called out. “Let’s get rough!”

Physical contact sports. Wrestling, or rugby, or something along those lines. Well. At least he wasn’t missing out on a date he might have liked. Unfortunately, he now had to live with three days of boredom and possibly Mycroft. Most definitely Mycroft. Who he hoped was bored out of his mind and incredibly frustrated, camping out in Sherlock’s room. Maybe his fatter, elder brother had given up?

            Sherlock knew better than that. Mycroft _never_ gave up. Or admitted defeat. All Sherlock could hope for was to wait him out until he forced his brother’s hand.

            Oh, joy. This was going to be a fun week.

            ~

“I’m so excited,” Lucy squealed. She was practically glowing with happiness. “It feels like it’s been years since I’ve gotten to see him. I would have been shattered if he hadn’t invited me again this week. I absolutely can’t wait for this date — even if I _do_ have to share him.”

~

“I’m a bit disappointed,” Anna said softly. “I didn’t have a great time on the last group date. I guess I was hoping I’d get one that makes up for that. Though a one-on-one would be better.”

~

Mycroft hadn’t been there when Sherlock went to bed. Nor when he woke up. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that fact. His brother wasn’t one to dawdle when he wanted something. Usually he’d be expecting some sort of threat or blackmail or something to force him to comply.

Nothing like that appeared either.

Great. Now he got to spend the whole day just waiting for what his brother would do next. At least one part of his brain would spend time obsessing over the next move, and he hated that fact. Not being able to control even the slightest portion of his thought process drove him mad. Loathing that useless, aimless speculation that was slated to constantly nag him throughout the morning and afternoon, while at the same time acknowledging there was nothing he could do about it.

Maybe that was Mycroft’s aim?

No. No, too simple. Mycroft wasn’t _ever_ simple.

Probably the best he could do for now was distract himself from the possibilities and stay in front of the cameras to avoid his brother’s annoying presence. So he climbed out of bed, put some presentable clothes on, and went out to greet the ruckus in the living room.

Why was there always a ruckus in the living room?

~

“I’m really excited for today’s date,” John said, happily. “Not many people know this, but I used to play rugby in uni. I guess I just wanted to share that tidbit with some of the girls. It should be fun.”

~

The girls looked mostly nervous as they shuffled out to the field. A few of them were whispering — from what John could see — but they were mostly quiet. Seeing eight girls in front of him for a ‘date’ was still strange. He vaguely wondered how it felt to be on the other side of this equation. It couldn’t be too bad or none of them would have stayed. But there was no way that they felt great about being one in fourteen.

Nothing he could do about it though, except what he was doing. It was getting easier to accept the fact that this was how the next month and a half of his life would go. It had been a month already, after all. He was almost halfway to the end of this mess.

He smiled across to Sarah, who waved at him.

It wasn’t all a mess.  There were some things he really liked.

“Alright,” John started to address the girls. It always felt like he was giving a speech at the beginning of a group date. “It’s a little known fact that I played rugby a bit when I was in university.”

Lucy perked up. She looked incredibly happy.

“Don’t get too excited,” John laughed. “I wasn’t much good, and I doubt I could play now.”

He waved his cane around a bit. He had brought it with him, even though he was trying not to use it. Sherlock had proven he could beat this limp. Now all he had to do was keep proving it to himself. It was just a matter of willpower.

That didn’t mean he was fine yet, though. It still hurt terribly sometimes, and he wasn’t entirely ready to wander about without his crutch. But he was trying. And that was a hell of a lot more than he could’ve said even a week ago.

“We’re going to split you into teams of four,” John continued. “And you girls are going to play. Whichever team wins gets extra time to spend with me tonight.” That prize was incredibly awkward. John didn’t think it was much of a reward, but by the way most of the women smiled he guessed they thought it was alright. “Any of you know how to play?”

Lucy’s hand shot up, followed by Andrea and Adele. Not many.

“Well, basically, you need to get the ball to the end of the field and touch it to the grass. That will score you five points. After that, you get a kick, and if you get it through the goal posts, you get another two points. You can’t throw the ball to another player if they’re in front of you. Only to the side and backwards. But you can run with the ball.” John sighed at the next bit. “We’re playing without penalties. Behave yourselves, tackle your hearts out, but don’t hurt each other.”

He already knew this was a recipe for disaster. Putting eight girls in a competition and leaving them without many rules? Not a great idea. But the producers wanted simplicity. Hopefully the girls would manage to not seriously injure themselves.

“Alright, then, that’s the basics.” The producers had asked him to just give just very dumbed-down rules. “Lucy, Stacy, Sarah, Adele. You’re one team. That leaves Jennifer, Andrea, Laura, and Cecelia on the other team. There are jerseys for you all on the benches behind you!”

The girls raced to grab their colours.

~

“You can _not_ be serious,” Stephanie was screeching as Sherlock walked in. “I’m too slutty, am I?”

“That’s not what I said,” Emily retorted, not breaking from her meditation pose. “I said that you’re probably going to get picked on for being less conservative than the other girls. No insult intended.”

“Well, it sounded pretty insulting,” Stephanie snapped, beginning to pace. “There’s nothing wrong with how I dress.”

“I didn’t say there was.”

“It’s not my fault that the rest of you don’t want to show off what you’ve got,” she continued. “I mean. I look great. What’s the point in hiding it?”

Emily didn’t respond. Stephanie paced for a moment more, waiting for a response, then huffed and stomped out. Sherlock didn’t have to ask. Karen got to it first.

“What the hell was that?”

It took a moment before Emily responded. Karen crouched down and patted her shoulder. “I guess I was trying to be honest with the wrong person.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Karen was pretty good at this consoling thing, Sherlock noted. Sympathetic. “Some people are just so fake that honesty gets their defenses up.”

Emily laughed at that. She smiled a bit and relaxed into a more natural position with a stretch. “I wish that wasn’t so true.”

“Oh, but it _so_ is.” Karen smiled too and stood back up. “Just don’t let her get your hackles up.”

“Not worth the effort,” Emily agreed with a sigh. Sherlock had found his chair and settled down into it. The drama was over, as far as he could tell, though Stephanie might murder someone. Honestly, that would just make things more interesting. He really wasn’t looking forward to a repeat of the day before.

Amelia’s joyful cry broke in from beside the television. “I got it working!”

A second later, proclaimed exactly _what_ was working.

“WELCOME TO MAAAAAAARIO KART!” the telly blared. Jennifer and Emily peered over at the incredibly loud game, both with raised eyebrows. Amelia stood smirking, two controllers in hand.

“Who wants the first match?” she offered.

Sherlock rarely played videogames. But in this case, he wasn’t sure he could resist. It was all in the reflexes, right? And it was a damn sight better than being incredibly bored.

He stood up and walked over to the sofa.

~

Lucy’s team — and it was unquestionably _Lucy’s_ team — was up by five points. Which wasn’t too bad, despite the fact that the game was five–zero. Lucy had almost killed Cecilia for missing the goal kick. She had been the driving force behind the whole team for the whole game, and no one would question her authority. She was brutal. Both to the opposite team and her own. But _her_ team was winning. At least they had that.

Halftime had just been called. Thankfully. The girls on both teams were exhausted. Adele had sprawled out beside Stacy, who was panting horribly. Sarah was a bit winded, but she knew better than to collapse after a hard work out. Her muscles need to stretch. She started a runner’s stretch, sighing as she felt the blood and oxygen course to her muscles.

“How did you get into this?” she asked Lucy, offhandedly. She was stretching beside her, looking tired but driven.

“Ex-boyfriend was a fanatic,” she laughed in response. “He used to drag me to the pub to watch when there was a game and get into huge fights over his favourite team. It was kind of scary.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, keeping her judgments in check. No point judging Lucy on one obsessive boyfriend.

“Yeah, I’m sure it was.”

Lucy smiled back at her. They only had a few minutes for break and the buzzer rang sharply to bring them back to the game.

“Alright, ladies!” Lucy screamed. “I want some extra time with John, and I think you do too. So, TACKLE ‘EM!”

~

“Lucy’s a bit intense,” Stacy said. “It’s just a bit much. Yeah, I want time with John and all, but she totally comes off as desperate.”

She sighed dramatically.

“I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to come off as desperate. Especially when I’m not entirely sure whether or not he’s even in to me.”

~

Sherlock wasn’t sure how he had ended up steering a horribly stereotyped Italian plumber around a terrible cartoon track, but he was determined to win at it now. Amelia was playing as Princess Peach, and she had won the last two tournaments. No one else wanted to play, and he certainly wasn’t giving up the controller. This was the first bit of decent entertainment he’d had in the last week.

“Victory on Choco Mountain!” Amelia screamed. “One more track of you loooosing.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Video games were all reflexes and hand-eye co-ordination. He excelled in both. He should have been winning by this point. And he was damn well going to start. Hopefully, on...Mario Raceway, or whatever track this was. Not giving him a pause, the countdown started. Amelia tensed beside him.

_Red_.

_Yellow._

_Green!_

Sharp right. Hit the multi-coloured boxes. Throw the red shell and watch Donkey Kong spin out of control. All while steering smoothly. At least he had conquered that. He wasn’t going to be one of those people who use their whole body to turn a little joystick. He was stable. And so was his steering.

“Can’t catch me yet!” Amelia yelled, as one of Sherlock’s green shells flew past her. Her screaming was annoying him to no end. But he was staying calm. If he let her distract him, he’d lose. Simple as that. And he wasn’t going to lose. Not this time.

But second lap, around the last corner to the finish line, she hit a...flower-thing and spun out. Toad was right behind him but he had managed to pass her, and he was going to hold this position no matter what.

“Oh, no you fucking don’t,” Amelia growled at him. “I’ve got a blue shell.”

“Shit,” Sherlock hissed, immediately letting Toad pass him. No sense taking first just to get knocked out.

~

“I totally ruled this game when I was a teenager,” Amelia crowed to the camera. “And I’m doing my best to rule again. Sherlock’s not doing too bad, but I am _queen_ of Karts. He can bring it on.”

~

“I will get her.” Sherlock looked agitated. “This should be so _easy_. It’s driving me insane that I’m not managing even one or two victories. It should be simple.”

He pondered for a moment. Managing to look like he was mentally pacing without ever leaving his chair.

“New goal: crush Amelia in _Mario Kart_.”

~

Sarah tackled with all her might. Laura went down hard, and Lucy grabbed the ball. One mad dash and a face first crash into the ground later and they had scored.

“FUCK YEAH,” Lucy screamed, as Adele shook her head in disbelief. They were all getting a headache from Lucy’s screaming.

~

“They’re really playing hard!” John cheered. He had a front row seat and it was worth it. He hadn’t seen a rugby game this exciting since university. “I am absolutely flattered at how much energy they’re putting into this. I’m so glad they’re enjoying themselves.”

~

“I’m going to die before this game ends,” Laura panted. “I’m not sure there’s going to be a recovery after this. Seriously, who the hell plays like this? I’m a designer not a jock.”

~

“Oh my God, let me die,” Jennifer cried. “I have a three-year-old at home, and I thought running after him was hard.”

She stopped to wave momentarily, despite being sweaty and exhausted.

“And when you see this, Will, mommy misses you, sweetie! I’ll be home soon.”

~

“Everything _hurts_ ,” Stacy cried. “I don’t know what possessed John to have us play rugby, but fuck him. This hurts way too much to be healthy.”

~

“No no no no no no NO!” Sherlock screamed. “How did I miss that?!”

“It’s not my fault you can’t steer around the snowmen,” Amelia laughed.

Sherlock snarled. He was _not_ going to lose. Not this round. Jump and slide to corner tightly, grab an item box...and watch Amelia crash into a snowman as he passed her.

“HA!” he cheered. “Who can’t steer now?”

“Oh, I am coming to get you,” Amelia growled in response. Suddenly, the competition was palpable. He was on equal footing now and he could — was going to — surpass her. He’d been at this for two hours, and he was getting better by leaps and bounds. Amelia might have been holding first place, but he was catching up quickly.

And Sherlock wanted to win.

~

Lucy was heaving, but she stood in front of her team as John came down to greet them. They had won seventeen to ten. And she was damn proud of it.

“That was great,” John cheered as he greeted them. “You all played amazingly. It was a really good game.”

“Good game,” Lucy shouted, slapping her teammates on the back. Her voice was starting to sound hoarse and crackling. A few of the other girls smiled weakly. Sarah was stretching everything very slowly.

“Make sure you all stretch out and cool down,” John instructed, watching them all carefully. “We don’t need any injuries because of this. But after you’re done we can all head to dinner.”

All the girls perked up at that. Smiling, they started to stretch as they headed for the change rooms.

~

“Definitely worth it,” Lucy beamed. She looked more like she’d won a lottery than a rugby match. “I’m so damn proud of all of us. It just went great. That’s the kind of teamwork that can make a woman proud! And I think it’ll make John proud too.”

~

“I am sore, and tired, and happy,” Sarah laughed. She looked exhausted, but not broken. She was obviously in better shape than she let on. “At least I can say that, if nothing else. And I get to see more of John.”

~

“I’m kind of disappointed in myself,” Andrea sighed. “I used to play women’s rugby, so this loss kind of hurt. I should have done better. But, I mean, we did alright. And I still get to see John. I just know what game I’ll be practicing when I get home.”

~

“Banshee Boardwalk goes to Sherlock Holmes!” Sherlock announced, loudly, for the room to hear. Jennifer shook her head with a little smile on her face. She’d been watching a bit from time to time.

“Don’t get too cocky. I took Yoshi Valley and Rainbow Road is totally my specialty,” Amelia responded, harshly. She’d had a giddy smile on her face since Sherlock had started winning. Somehow, having an actual competitor had made the game worthwhile. They’d both lost track of how long they had been playing but it didn’t matter, because they finally had a fight worth spending time on. It might not be much, but Banshee Boardwalk was _hard_ and Sherlock had managed to trounce her on it. To him, that was the start of a great winning streak. And he’d finally forgotten about Mycroft, for the first time in two days. That had to count for something.

The countdown started on Rainbow Road.

~

As the girls sat down to dinner, they all started whispering. The rose was on the table, like always, but John supposed it was more exciting for them than for him. He made sure they were all comfortable — and that food was on the table — before he began pulling girls aside for their alone time.

He started with Stacy.

~

“Rematch!” Amelia hollered. “I call for a rematch!”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed. He was getting the hang of this. He’d taken the last tournament, only losing one track. But he need more practice to go undefeated. And besides, she was still winning some rounds. Clearly he needed to rectify that fact.

~

“How’d you like the game today?” John asked as they sat down. Stacy smiled falsely.

“It was okay. Rugby’s not really my thing.”

“That’s too bad.” John smiled and leaned back into his chair. “It’s a great game.”

“If you say so.” She looked at him questioningly, but didn’t say anything further. He wasn’t sure what had gone wrong, but she obviously was not interested in talking about sports.

“Ah, so. Madrid is gorgeous isn’t it?” he asked, trying to restart the conversation. This wasn’t going to go well. He could already tell. One of _those_ dates. He hadn’t had one with the girls yet. But it was happening.

“Yeah, it’s beautiful. I saw most of it with my sister last year,” she replied, calmly.

“Oh?” John asked. Maybe it wasn’t going to be as bad as he thought. “Do you and her come here often?”

“No. Not really.”

“A special vacation?”

“Just a regular vacation.” She sighed. And looked at him again.

Nevermind. This was going to be a long half hour. He deftly tried one more time.

“So, how has your stay been so far?” he asked, quickly, trying to cover the silence. He really hoped they hadn’t just run out of things to talk about.

“Fine. It’s been fine.” She shrugged. “Sorry, John. I’m just tired.”

“It’s okay,” he replied, soothingly. “We can relax a bit before we head back.”

He waited for her to reply. She just smiled forcibly.

~

“That was about as miserable as a conversation gets,” John moaned at the camera. “I know it’s not her fault, but that was really awkward. I hope all the girls aren’t this tired. Or I’m going to be in for a long, _long_ evening.”

~

“It was good to get the exercise,” Sarah said, smiling, obviously less beaten and more refreshed. John thanked the higher powers for that small miracle. “It’s been so hard with all those plane rides and being cloistered in the hotel room. It feels nice to stretch and work some muscles.”

“Ah, yeah, I bet it does,” John answered, lightly. He was smiling too. This was so much better than the last conversation that he couldn’t even express it. “I keep forgetting they keep you all locked up in there.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s awful.” Sarah laughed, happy. “It’s a five-star hotel, after all.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that doesn’t hurt.” John smiled and felt himself leaning sideways to rest his shoulder against hers. Sighing, she sunk into him and turned her head up towards him.

He couldn’t help but lean down and kiss her, deeply, passionately, and happily. He really could see himself with Sarah for a very long time. She was great. Really great.

He could maybe marry her. And that was a big positive in favour of this whole show. Even though his heart was in a knot most of the days, he was starting to see the positives. Which meant that either he’d been there too long or there was actually some good coming of this.

Sarah’s soft smile said that it was something good. He hoped that was right.

~

“ARGH,” Sherlock screamed, a red shell throwing him off the edge of Choco Mountain, effectively moving him from first place to eighth. Amelia was cheering for herself over his yells of frustration. “What the hell kind of game has such a stupid and unavoidable trap?”

“Both of you need to calm down!” Stephanie snapped from the kitchen. “It’s a fucking game!”

“Piss off!” Sherlock and Amelia chorused.

~

John brought the rose out when he went out with Lucy. She smiled as they settled down, and they both knew what was coming.

“You did a bloody fantastic job today,” John praised. “You’ve played before?”

“Not played, no,” Lucy admitted blushing at his words. “But I knew a lot about it from an ex-boyfriend.”

“He was a player or a fan?” John asked, casually. He didn’t know if it was a safe subject or a bad one. He was bad at judging things like that and he never knew when it wasn’t alright to ask.

“A fan and a complete arse,” Lucy said calmly, tensing up a bit. Okay. Not a good subject then. “Let’s not talk about him.”

“Ah, sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad topics.” John fiddled with the rose and decided to change the subject. “Look, um, I think you were definitely the best player out there today. You really had your heart in it, and I could see that.”

Lucy blushed, but she smiled too. “It really means a lot to me, to be able to win. I want to spend time with you.”

“I’m flattered,” John said smiling. He _was_ flattered. He didn’t think he was that interesting. In fact, he assumed he was downright boring. As far as he knew, he didn’t _do_ anything. “I’m enjoying time with you too and, honestly, I think you deserve this. Will you accept this rose?”

“Always,” Lucy murmured, taking the flower and resting it just under her nose, smelling it like it was the most intoxicating fragrance. “Always.”

~

“I feel a thousand times better,” Lucy sighed. “I was wondering if maybe I came off as a bit crazy. But I enjoyed that. I feel like a new person. Less weepy and more assertive. I hate being stepped on.”

She sighed.

“I still think John is the one, though. This rough, rugby playing side of him is so dreamy.”

~

“I see we’ve been busy today,” Dave commented, with a glance at the paused game and a smile. “I’m glad everyone can keep themselves entertained while they’re not out.”

He paused to watch everyone but Sherlock and Amelia cringe. Apparently the last few hours of loud gameplay hadn’t gone over well. Sherlock didn’t really care.

“Are you all ready for the next invitation?”

“Yes!” Anna called. Dave handed it directly to her.

“You can do the honours then,” he said. Then left.

“Stephanie,” Anna read, a touch of disappointment in her voice, “we’ve got a box seat.”

Huh. A play — more likely, an opera. Stephanie looked pleased. Anna certainly didn’t. All Sherlock wanted was to keep playing _Mario Kart_. At least video games provided enough stimulation — and reflex training — to keep him just outside of bored and away from Mycroft.

All he could ask for was to keep well away from Mycroft. That was it. If he had that? He was happy.

~

He found the note when he got back to his hotel room.

_My dear little brother,_ Mycroft wrote — probably sarcastically — _I know you’re enjoying your stay here. Developments have come up where I no longer need your assistance. Besides, Mummy said that she’s happy you’ve found someone that you like who can also tolerate you._

 Mummy did _not_ say that. She was never that blunt about his lack of romantic partners.

_Do remember, I got you on this show and I can get you kicked off. I hope you’re more accommodating the next time your brother asks you for a favour._

_Also, Inspector Lestrade says hello, and wishes you the best of luck. He says he and the rest of the Yard will be watching the episodes when they come out._

_Your affectionate brother,_

_Mycroft Holmes._

Well, fuck. Punishment for not obeying Mycroft would be months of misery and teasing, whenever he tried to solve any cases for the police force. Every new episode would be an embarrassment to his good name. He could already picture Anderson’s face, and that made him cringe both inwardly and outwardly. That man was an idiot. Even thinking about him felt like he was killing brain cells.

 Suddenly, Sherlock never wanted to return to London. Boredom aside, this whole shenanigan was refreshing. He’d found John — who was surprisingly interesting and not that shallow and who genuinely liked him, even though he wasn’t really trying to impress. Well, maybe showing off his intelligence a little. But that was it. He was still his mostly abrasive self.

And John had kissed him anyway. And Sherlock hadn’t hated it. That in itself made this whole thing worth exploring further.

And it put off his inevitable torment by a few more days. He could live with that.

Even if thinking about that kiss made his stomach flop. John didn’t make sense. He liked that. Most people were too predictable and boring. John was decidedly _not_ boring, and not being able to totally understand him made him that much more interesting to Sherlock. The day after tomorrow was going to be so exciting compared to his three days of boredom.

It disgusted him that he was _looking forward_ to that silly rose ceremony. But he was.

~

John lay back quietly against his pillows. It had been a long night. Extra time with the girls meant that he had had an extra-long evening. It felt like _he_ had been the one playing rugby. And he felt good but lonely at the same time. It almost hurt to be alone after days of being the centre of attention. Not because he needed the attention, mind you. Just because he didn’t have an outlet for _anything_. Talking to people wasn’t allowed. He could only write so much in a letter, and he was _allowed_ to write even less. So if he wanted to talk about Sarah’s smile, or how well Lucy played, or the fact that he missed Sherlock and was worried about what that meant, he was out of luck.

And he did miss Sherlock. Smiling and flirting and chatting with the women was great, and he loved it, and it reminded him that he still liked women. Sarah stirred a lot of deep emotions in him. But Sherlock was amazing in a completely different way. And he missed that brand of incredible. He wanted to talk about cases and the museum and what was going on behind the scenes and how he was feeling now that Tara was gone. The other women were great, but very few of them were objective and very few of them wanted to talk about anything that was going on. Sherlock was always objective. And John knew he wouldn’t mind talking about the group situation.

Plus, John honestly wanted to make sure that no one else was being homophobic. Sherlock didn’t need that. _John_ didn’t need that. He didn’t need anyone to judge him for wanting to keep Sherlock. It was bad enough that he had to keep thinking about it.

He didn’t second guess his choice to keep Sarah. He felt just as happy with Sherlock. There shouldn’t be a difference, but there was, because he wasn’t gay, and that’s just not what straight men do. They don’t kiss other men.

But John did. So he wasn’t really straight. But he liked women. And he didn’t really like men in general. So he wasn’t really gay. Or bi, really.

Sherlock was just an exception. He seemed to be the exception to a lot of rules, which was part of the reason John liked him so much.

He rolled over and started to suffocate himself in his pillows. The musty scent of feathers absorbed each breath, grounding him in something physical. He didn’t have the time or energy to think about this now. He needed to sleep.

Fact: he missed Sherlock.

Fact: he liked Sherlock in the same way he liked the women.

Fact: he honestly wasn’t too bothered by the idea of being with a man, except for the possibility of being rejected or finding out that it was only a fling.

He’d seen Harry go through hell with his parents and classmates and date some girls that were ‘just experimenting’. She’d had a lot of heartbreak. He might not be her best friend, and he might not approve of a lot of the things she did, but he didn’t agree with the way she had been treated. And he didn’t want any of those things to happen to him and Sherlock.

Which was why he was still mulling this over at half past twelve, when he needed to be up for seven in the morning. There wasn’t an answer. He just had to deal with things as they came up. Like he dealt with Tara.

That thought made his stomach turn. He’d kissed her and not suspected anything. The guilt was completely disproportionate to the act, but he felt awful about it.

And he felt a _lot_ better about that kiss with Sherlock.

It took twenty more minutes of staring at the ceiling and willing himself to sleep before John actually drifted off. His brain was getting used to late nights and crappy sleep. Welcome to stress.

~

“Oh my gosh,” Stephanie gushed as she stepped out of the car the next day. She was wearing a beautiful but short shimmery red dress, and John wasn’t quite sure she knew what ‘opera attire’ was. “I’m so excited!”

“You seem to be,” John laughed. He thought she’d enjoy this. “The opera starts in half an hour, so we’d better get going.”

“Really?” Stephanie cried, delighted. “Which opera?”

“Mozart’s _La Clemenza di Tito_.” John had practiced saying that until he didn’t screw up the Italian. It wasn’t an opera he was familiar with, but he was told it was good.

“Mmm,” Stephanie sighed. “Good. I love Mozart’s operas.”

John started to lead them in, so they could get to their seats before curtain call.

“You like operas?” he asked, casually.

“Love them,” she answered, clasping her hands to her heart. “I always wanted to play Carmen when I was little. That’s why I started acting. Well, and singing, but I’m not as good at that as I want to be.”

“I’m sure you sing beautifully,” John reassured her. “You have a lovely voice.”

“Thank you,” she sighed. “I still wish I was good enough to be in an opera.”

John looked over to see if she was alright, but she just smiled up at him.

“It’ll be great to enjoy one again,” she laughed. “I’m looking forward to it.”

~

The Nintendo 64 was tucked back under the television by lunch. Amelia had called it quits after Lucy started complaining. There was something very vocal about Lucy — she could shut up the entire room if she needed to. And Sherlock honestly wasn’t protesting. He wasn’t as lively today as he had been yesterday.  Just tired, after a night of obsessing about his shattered reputation at the Yard.

So he had taken his book and curled into his chair and read. And as evening was setting in some of the girls had gathered around the sofa, fighting over which movie to watch. He heard the word ‘sleepover’ briefly.

“Sherlock,” Jennifer called, holding a bottle of wine, “get over here and watch this movie with us.”

“No, thank you,” he replied. He didn’t want to offend the few people who liked him, but he could already tell that he didn’t want to be part of this. Something about gossiping drunk women just smacked of bad idea.

“Did that sound like a question?” Lucy yelled. She had gotten up and stalked over to him. “We’re doing our best to include you. Least you can do is _try_ to enjoy it.”

“You don’t have to worry about including me,” Sherlock groaned, as Lucy yanked him out of his chair, with a bit of force. Or tried to, anyway. Sherlock may be skinny, but Lucy certainly wasn’t strong.

“Come on,” Andrea called. Why were they all against him? He didn’t have the energy for this nonsense. “Get over here. We want to figure out how you get your hair in those perfect little curls.”

“It grows that way,” he retorted. But he really didn’t have the energy to fight, and Lucy was still tugging on his arm, and if he joined their nonsense at the very least he could get her to _stop touching him_.

So he stood, brushed her off, and came to sit slightly outside of their circle, while Andrea insisted that hair couldn’t _possibly_ grow that way naturally.

All he could do from there was brace himself.

~

As the curtain came down for intermission, John noticed that Stephanie was crying. Just a few tears, nothing that would ruin her makeup, but she was definitely affected. A bit of panic stirred in him. She wasn’t crying because of him, was she? Just the opera?

It hadn’t been that moving, had it?

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, frantically searching for a handkerchief. He found one, but it was in rough shape.

“I’m fine,” she answered, taking John’s crumpled offering and dabbing at her eyes. “I just love Vitellia’s part. It’s so tragically beautiful.”

“Really?” John didn’t see how. Vitellia had seduced Emperor Tito’s best friend, Sesto, _then_ convinced him to kill the emperor for spurning her. John had kind of felt that she was fickle and greedy. He tried to temper that response for Stephanie, though. “I honestly didn’t find her that likable.”

“It’s just so sad and beautiful what a woman will do for love,” Stephanie sighed, more or less ignoring John’s lack of enthusiasm. “I hope I can love that deeply someday, that I would kill for it.”

“Hopefully you never have to kill for love,” John said, laughing in nervousness. He took a bit of courage from the fact that she had said ‘someday.’ He was safe for now.

~

“You have such beautiful hands,” Jennifer sighed. “I wish mine were shaped that well.”

Sherlock really wasn’t sure what was so appealing about cooing over each other’s body parts and braiding hair or painting nails. He had narrowly avoided having his painted and that was only with a very firm refusal. He wasn’t going to put up with this nonsense much longer.

“Okay,” Andrea said solemnly. “Can we talk about John now?”

“Why are we talking about John?” Sherlock questioned, suddenly terrified.

“Because that’s what we’re thinking about,” Lucy sighed. “We might as well discuss it.”

Oh no, Sherlock was not in the mood for this. He was not lazing around and chatting about how _dreamy_ John was, or how he was utterly confused about whether or not he was enjoying this experience, or how proud he had been when John hadn’t needed a cane in the Louvre. These were weaknesses. He wasn’t about to share any of this with a gaggle of women. He needed to run.

“I think I’m going to sleep,” Sherlock grumbled, standing and pulling away from the rest of them. Nail polish, hair, and boys. Wow, suddenly he was very grateful that he wasn’t a girl. Being forced to participate in the fringes of one of these get-togethers was enough to last him a lifetime.

“Aw, but the movie’s only half done,” Laura complained. “It’s just getting good.”

“The female spy eventually escapes, using her sexual prowess, and hooks up with the terrorist agent turned government mole. I’m sure they live happily ever after,” Sherlock called, trying to pull away subtly.

“Oh, come on!” Laura shouted. “You could have left the movie alone!”

He smirked, but found himself cornered.

“You’re just afraid to talk about John, aren’t you?” Andrea sighed. “You know, we’re not all Tara. None of us care that you like John too.”

Sherlock bristled a little. “That’s not what I’m concerned about. I’d just rather not discuss the matter.”

“You barely told us anything about your date, either,” Laura added. “We’ve got sketchy details on the Louvre, and how great it was. Did he kiss you?”

“None of your business, either way,” Sherlock snapped. Laura frowned.

“Oh, come off it,” Jennifer sighed. “We’re not going to force anything out of you. We just want you to have fun. It’s a bonding thing.”

“We’re not going to make friends and play nice in this situation,” Sherlock growled, standing up sharply and backing away. “It’s a competition, and we’ll all dislike each other in the end. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.”

“Fine,” Jennifer called, as he started to stalk towards his bedroom. “You’ll be less of a grouch after you’ve slept!”

He was tempted to make a face at her.

~

It was dinner, and Stephanie was sitting far too close. John knew he shouldn’t be worried about this. A pretty actress in a short skirt wants to sit close and put her hand on his thigh? He should be ecstatic. But he wasn’t. The way she rubbed his leg and whispered in his ear and tried to be coy were too forward. John was never comfortable with quickly moving relationships and, as far as he was concerned, he barely knew Stephanie.

He was starting to feel like an animal caught in a trap.

“You’re so gorgeous,” she crooned. She had also switched from intelligent conversation about opera to fawning over him vapidly and making innuendoes that John pretended not to get. “I just want to eat you all up.”

“I’m sure dessert would taste better,” John said nervously. Sweating. He was sweating.

“Mmm, I don’t think so,” she whispered, licking at his ear. “Why don’t we skip dessert?”

“Ahhhh...” How do you say ‘please don’t touch me’ politely? John wasn’t sure there was a way.

She leaned in closer and lowered her voice so he could barely hear her. “I’m not wearing any panties.”

Alright then. No more kid gloves. John pushed away so he could look her in the eyes without her grabbing his crotch.

“Look, Stephanie,” he started, then paused. She looked terrified, but he had to do this. It wasn’t going to work. Sometimes you could tell just from a conversation. And the last awkward and not-working conversation he had had was with Tara. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. “You’re a wonderful girl. I had a great time with you, but I think we both know this isn’t working.”

“John,” she whined. “Please don’t.”

“You’re so confident and open and I think that’s great.” He kept going. He had to. He wasn’t going to make the wrong decision just to regret it. “But I’m a lot less...adventurous than you, and this dynamic just isn’t working.”

“Oh God,” she whispered. It looked like she was going to cry. John felt awful. But not awful enough to not say it.

“I can’t give you this rose,” he whispered. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t.”

And then she started sobbing properly. He dug out his handkerchief again and sidled closer. Not too close, though.

“Hey. Hey, don’t cry,” he consoled. She put her head down on his shoulder and sobbed deeply. “It’s okay. You’re a fabulous woman. You’ll find someone.”

“I thought I found _you_ ,” she cried, shaking her head against his shoulder. He patted her hair gently, not pulling her any closer. “I thought I found you.”

“I’m not the right guy for you. You’ll get over me.” He was _not_ the right guy. That was something he was certain of. She was an actress — she could do better than him anyways. “Come on, now, cheer up.”

She stood shakily and suddenly and started walking away. When John went to go after her, she shook her head, stumbled, and kept going, shoving his hand away.

All John could do was watch as she disappeared.

~

BAM.

“Hey, what’s going on?” There was an uproar in the living room. Again. How could Sherlock _not_ go see what was happening? He had enough forethought to throw on his robe over his T-shirt and pyjama bottoms before bursting in.

A crew member had stomped in, not saying a word, and grabbed Stephanie’s packed suitcase. Every girl was instructed to pack everything before a one-on-one date, but no one had ever been sent home on one. Looks like Stephanie was going to be the first.

“Oh my God,” Anna gasped as he stomped out. “What happened?”

“She was probably too forward for John,” Sherlock observed loudly. “He always was uncomfortable with her advances.”

“You think she like...you know. Pulled an Amanda on him?” Karen asked incredulously. Sherlock immediately wanted to crawl into a hole and potentially die. “I know she’s fake, but is she that _stupid_?”

“Or bitchy. It could have just been bitchiness,” Cecelia pointed out.

“Oh my God.” Anna apparently wasn’t getting over her surprise.

“Well,” Lucy said cautiously. “I guess things just got serious.”

“Things were already serious,” Sherlock sighed, rubbing his forehead and heading back to his room. “We’re just starting to realize it.”

~

“I tried everything I knew,” Stephanie sobbed. “I don’t know. I’m not sexy enough for him? Is that the problem?”

She paused to catch her breath and look at the camera, tears still dripping.

“I just want love. I want to try again. I want someone to love me. When do I get that?”

~

“When they came and got that suitcase, I could have fainted,” Anna cried. “I can’t imagine how painful it would be to be sent home like that, without any goodbyes. I hope Stephanie is okay.”

~

“Wow.” Laura’s eyes were wide. “Wow. I don’t think any of us even realized that this was a possibility. John’s so sweet. I don’t know what went wrong, but it must have been something terrible.”

~

“I do feel really bad about it,” John said to the camera. “I can’t lie and say I don’t. I don’t ever want to make a girl cry. And maybe under different circumstances, I would have accepted. But that’s not the way to build a relationship. Especially when there are so many other girls here.”

He looked at his feet before mumbling, “I couldn’t do that to any of them, much less all of them at once.”

~

Sherlock had avoided the common room before the rose ceremony. He could hear the screeching gossip through the walls, and he _did not_ want to be a part of it. He could guess at what happened. She had gone too far outside of John’s comfort zone, probably offered him sex and he had had to refuse it, because he was honourable like that. She was fake as plastic anyway, so it wasn’t a big loss.

But everyone else was terrified. Which didn’t make sense. None of these girls were like her. And most of them were at least somewhat compatible with John.

John liked everyone, though. That wasn’t much of a problem.

But the uproar in the living room was giving him a headache, and trying to read had been awful, and he was happy to be somewhere quieter.

Mind you, the hall for the ceremony was only quieter because they were whispering instead of screaming.

He was looking forward to talking to John. At least John was reasonable. And calm.

“You feeling okay?” Karen asked, sidling up to him. Alright, so some of the girls were still calm. Karen seemed fine. And maybe Andrea. “Sorry if we pushed you out of the party last night.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied, his annoyance fading. “I’m just not much of a parties-and-gossip person. Especially in a situation like this.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Karen shrugged. “I think the other girls can too. Jennifer seemed worried that she’d upset you, but I don’t think she’ll say anything.”

Sherlock silently agreed. Jennifer liked to keep the peace while still being a sarcastic ‘strong’ personality. It was all show, but she’d maintain the sarcastic and smiling persona unless she was broken. He wasn’t about to break her. At least, not unless she decided to annoy him further.

“Don’t worry about it,” Karen said happily patting him on the back. “I’ll get you a drink.”

For once, Sherlock was tempted to accept. He had a long time to go before this was over. But logic told him to avoid anything inebriating.

Sigh. John had better appreciate how damn _boring_ this all was.

~

“So,” John said. He had been trying to redeem his conversation with Stacy. He really was.

It wasn’t working.

“You said you were an accountant?” John asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” she answered. Nothing more.

“Is it a good job?”

“I guess so.” She started to pick her fingernails. John just wanted this to end.

She obviously did too.

It was happening to him again. He maybe shouldn’t be surprised but the women he didn’t work with were becoming really obvious. Crappy conversations, running out of things to say, vapid and superficial chatter. It was like fifteen minutes of torture. Every. Time.

Stacy was one of those girls. John knew what came next.

~

“He’s kind of predictable,” Stacy yawned at a camera. “I do like him. A lot. He tries so hard. But he’s not good at conversation.”

~

Sherlock could have cheered when John pulled him aside. John looked relieved too.

“It’s great to see you again,” John said, giving him a hug. Sherlock’s face twitched. A smile?

“Agreed. It’s been a long week.” Sherlock relaxed into the sofa as he sat, suddenly feeling a lot better.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” John cringed, sitting down beside him. “I was told you had an urgent call?”

Oh. So _that_ was Mycroft’s game. There was probably a bribe in there too.

“I didn’t end up taking it,” Sherlock sighed. “My brother needs to learn to live with his mistakes.”

“You have a brother?” John lit up. New facts about Sherlock were always interesting. He could do with something interesting right about now. “Older or younger?”

“Older. Much to my chagrin.” Well, there were worse topics than Mycroft, he supposed. And it was nice to have some easy conversation that didn’t involve screaming or boredom.

“He annoys you?” John could understand that. Harry annoyed him a lot of the time. Or horribly disappointed him. But that was Harry for you.

“More than that. I would call us enemies, most of the time.” Sherlock sighed. Family relationships were complex. “In fact, he often refers to himself as my ‘arch-nemesis.’”

“But you work together?”

“No,” Sherlock quickly retorted, laughing a bit at the utter absurdity of that image. “Definitely not. Occasionally, he brings me a case to solve for him in exchange for money. But he’s more likely to spend effort getting rid of me. He put me on this set because I started investigating one of his... _clients._ ”

He wasn’t sure why he told John that. He wasn’t sure why he had told John any of this. Maybe because John was steady and calm and so utterly open about himself, or maybe because he just needed to tell someone. Before he went insane.

But John looked worried.

“I thought you came to the show because you were bored?” he asked, curious and cautious. Like he was about to tread on a landmine. Sherlock had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“I stayed because I was bored,” Sherlock affirmed. “And now I’m here because I want to be. I didn’t take the case because I don’t want to go.”

John was blushing. Furiously, even. And Sherlock had the sudden urge to kiss him. That wasn’t weird, was it? John had already kissed him once, but when it was his turn, things were strange. This was what he was supposed to do, though. He had to inch closer. He had to move faster.

“That’s good. I want you to _want_ to be here,” John muttered, looking cute and embarrassed. Sherlock could see his opening sliding closed, and he panicked a little. His hand landed on John’s thigh. And John’s eyes met the detective’s in curiosity. “Sherlock?”

Slowly, he slid sideways until he was close enough to reach and then pecked John on the cheek. Quickly.

John’s face was somewhere between beet red and utterly confused. It was _hilarious_. Sherlock was pretty sure laughing at your date was bad form, but he was sure his grin looked a little uncontrolled at the moment. John had the most _interesting_ expressions.

“I, um,” John stuttered uselessly. “I’m glad you stayed, Sherlock.”

“So am I,” Sherlock said. Time to change the subject before things got awkward and he thought too much about how not smooth that was. How were people any good at this? “Where are we heading next week?”

John smiled with a little less redness to his cheeks. “Athens.”

~

Later in the evening, when he was off getting ready to hand out roses, John freaked out. Sherlock had _kissed him_. Not the other way around, and not by force or anything. And he had chosen staying with John over his job. That was...impressive, especially since John was certain that Sherlock had been bored out of his mind this week. And Sherlock didn’t seem to take boredom well.

And he was glad. Genuinely glad. Sherlock liked him.

He had to take a deep breath and calm himself. Was there a good way to show Sherlock he appreciated the initiative? There had to be. He could think of _something_.

“You ready, John?” Dave called. “Time to head out.”

“Thanks,” John returned. His stomach was in knots, but he knew what he was doing.

Or, at least, that’s what he told himself.

~

The rose ceremony came quickly. All the girls shuffled into their traditional lines, Sherlock at the side, so as not to block anyone’s view. Dave swerved in with John by his side.

“Ladies, and gentleman,” Dave announced, “It’s been an adventurous week in Madrid. From Libraries to Rugby, we’ve had a lot of excitement. As you all know, Stephanie has already left after her date last night.”

A few of the girls muttered softly.

“But the rest of you are still here. Lucy, Amelia, you are both safe. There are ten roses here. That means that, for one of you, tonight will be your last night.” He waved at John standing beside the tray of roses. “When you’re ready, John.”

And then Dave bowed out. John picked up the first rose.

“Sherlock,” he called. Sherlock smiled and walked up to accept. “Sherlock, will you accept this rose?”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock muttered, taking the rose. John handed it over, gently leaning forward and pulling him a bit closer to press his lips against Sherlock’s, with a smile as the startled detective responded. A sweet, chaste kiss.

“Thank you,” John whispered, feeling his stomach toss. Something about kissing Sherlock in public made him far more nervous than he had been so far. Sherlock looked delighted and John felt delighted, but he also felt like this had suddenly become real. Sherlock was dating him. Maybe one of many right now, but it was official and he was officially a contender. The girls seemed to agree, by their reaction.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was grinning and almost giddy. It was a weird moment of satisfaction as he took his rose and stood in line.

“Oh my gosh,” he could hear behind him. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, he did _not_.” Adele didn’t sound threatened, just shocked. There were other whispers too. From what he gleaned, they hadn’t actually known John would kiss him. Shocking. Scandalous, even. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or proud. He did like to be surprising. But honestly, this shouldn’t be so much of a surprise. They had been asking him about it just yesterday, and now that it happens and they’re shocked? Being surrounded by hypocrites didn’t really bolster his faith in humanity.

“Sarah,” John called next. She came up and gave him a tight hug. He hugged back. “Will you accept this rose?”

“I will,” she sighed, taking it back with her.

“Laura,” he called next. Then Emily, then Cecelia. Jennifer, Adele, Andrea, Karen. It was down to Stacy and Anna.

“Anna,” he called, softly, giving her the last rose.

Stacy walked over to him, and gave him a hug. She looked defeated, more than sad, like the life had drained out of her. “Thank you for giving me a chance,” she whispered.

“Sorry,” he whispered. John didn’t think he did a good job at being consoling. Stacy pulled out of the hug abruptly and moved away.

“Not your fault.”

~

“I guess we aren’t as compatible as I thought,” Stacy sighed. “It feels awful, but I don’t want to waste any tears on it. This happens. There’s only a chance for one of us, and I guess I wasn’t the one.”

She got up and walked off screen.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” could be heard as she moved away.

~

“I always worry when I’m picked last,” Anna fretted. “It always feels like I’ve failed, or I’ve done something badly that I could have done better. I don’t know. I know there’s nothing I can do — it’s just a matter of whether or not he likes me.”

She started tearing up and tried to rub her eyes, wiping away the evidence.

“I just hope he likes me more than that.”

~

“John kissing Sherlock surprised a lot of us,” Amelia said, more amused than shocked, from her expression. “I can’t believe how naïve some of us can be. I mean, what did they expect?”

~

Sherlock listened to some of the women whisper as they all shuffled back to their rooms. Not that he was concerned. They could chatter about John and his elicit affairs all evening if they needed to. He wasn’t going to stop them. At this point he had other things to think about.

Everything felt a lot more real suddenly. He was actively pursuing a relationship with one John Watson, whether he liked it or not, and it seemed to be going well. Much the chagrin of approximately half his fellow competitors. On top of that, he was happy to be there. That was more of an issue to him than anything else. He wanted to be there.

Mycroft was _never_ going to let him live this down.

~

When John got back to his hotel room, there was a tall, slightly overweight man sitting in the chair by his bed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with this at three in the morning. But by the looks of it, he had no choice.

“Doctor John Watson, I presume?” the man drawled, not moving from his chair. John hovered near the entrance, wary of sitting in the room with a stranger. The army instincts were still working.

“Yes. Who would you be?” That was his best gruff voice. Hopefully it was convincing.

“Mycroft Holmes. Normally, I wouldn’t state my name but I believe it is relevant to my business this evening.” He shifted slightly to lace his fingers. Somehow John wasn’t surprised that the other Holmes was just as collected as Sherlock. What he wanted to know was why he was sitting in John’s bedroom at three in the morning.

“You’re Sherlock’s brother,” John said. He cringed, inwardly. Great, John. State the obvious and look as stupid as possible. If Mycroft was half as intelligent as Sherlock, John probably sounded dumber than a Neanderthal. Just what he needed to get the psychological edge in this situation.

“Yes, good. I see he’s mentioned me.” Mycroft’s smile was evil. John shuddered briefly as the other man continued. “That is exactly why I’m here.”

“Because he mentioned he has family?” Oh, now John was confused too. Just to make everything better. Why can’t people harass him at normal hours? After he’d had some sleep and gotten over the emotional overload that was the rose ceremony.

“Sherlock never mentions personal details to anyone.” Mycroft’s smile disappeared. “Nor does he refuse casework for something as trivial as a television contract.”

John was trying not to be flattered. Apparently, Sherlock trusted him a lot. That...felt good. It was nice to be trusted by someone who didn’t trust many people. The fact that this someone was Sherlock just made things better, in John’s opinion. “Your point?”

“My point is that my brother is inexperienced in this area, and he is sometimes more naïve than he wishes to admit,” Mycroft continued. “I just want you to be aware of how fragile he really is and how powerful his connections are. If you understand my meaning.”

John stared. And then...just kept staring. Mycroft tapped his fingers, body posture as imposing as possible from his seated position. John wasn’t sure he trusted his ears.

“Did you just threaten me?” he asked, trying to remain calm.

“I’ll leave that up to you,” Mycroft said, politely standing and grabbing his umbrella on the way out. “Treat my brother well, Dr. Watson. I do so worry about him.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” John muttered as Mycroft left. He wasn’t really sure if he was getting what had just happened.

Mycroft Holmes had appeared in his room and basically told him not to break his brother’s heart. Then waltzed out, like that was just another typical day. Which for all he knew, it very well might be for the Holmes brothers. And he was still reeling over Sherlock Holmes being the first man he had ever even contemplated a romance with. He still had to fully adjust to that fact, no matter how many times he told himself to just do what feels right. His life was getting way too complicated way too quickly, and there was no one to talk to and that meant that he second guessed every minute action.

Plus, as an added benefit, he was almost scared of what Mycroft might do if it _didn’t_ work out between him and Sherlock.

Could it possibly be worse than this production, though?

He just wanted to be less confused, less tired, and slightly less guilty. Every single time he had to send a girl home, he was left with that sunken feeling of guilt.  He wondered how long it would take to get over that. He wondered how long it would take to stop caring about anything but going back to London.

Fuck it. He needed to go to sleep.


	5. Episode Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Five - Athens, Greece

Episode Five

 

The very quiet uproar didn’t start until they had settled into their hotel in Athens. Probably because there hadn’t been a chance to gossip or be scandalized while they were traveling. All in all, Sherlock was glad that he had a room to escape to before the girls got into it. He heard most of the whispering, though.

“I never thought about it before,” Anna whispered to Karen. “I’m not sure I’m okay with it, either. I mean, I didn’t really think about John like _that_ ,and then seeing it? It’s just kinda weird.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Karen answered, also quietly. “I mean, it’s no different than anything that’s going on between all the rest of us.”

“But–” She stopped herself. “I’m not trying to sound homophobic. I don’t care if two guys like each other. I’m just not sure I can handle my boyfriend _having_ a boyfriend.”

“As opposed to having ten other girlfriends?” Karen wasn’t being as quiet anymore. “You’ll live, Anna. It sucks just as much as the rest of this dating thing.”

Karen left. Anna glanced surreptitiously at him from the couch, hand squeezed in her lap. She really wasn’t strong-willed. Sherlock would have been happy to discuss his potential involvement with John, if she wanted to. He’d be happy to tell her that there probably wasn’t anything to worry about.

So far his ‘romance’ with John had included one in-the-moment kiss, one awkward kiss on the cheek from himself, and that kiss from John. But he wasn’t sure that meant anything. He wasn’t a good candidate for marriage. They obviously enjoyed each other’s company, but there was no way John was that ‘in’ to him. To phrase it colloquially.

After all, who would pass up two-point-five children and a stable, acceptable, heterosexual relationship for a mad dash with a disagreeable, unstable, socially awkward man? He wasn’t even John’s preferred gender. If he were completely honest, he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

All the women should know that. He couldn’t understand why they were making such a big deal about a quick peck...or why he was still thinking about it incessantly.

~

“I don’t know why it bothers me,” Anna sighed at the camera, “but it’s different than seeing John kiss the other girls. It worries me. And I’m not sure I’m okay with being worried about the guy I love.”

~

He wasn’t entirely happy with his decisions at this point. What he wanted to do was take out Sherlock and talk to him. John really felt like they needed a conversation that lasted more than fifteen minutes. And for more reasons than the fact that John’d been threatened by his rather terrifying brother.

But he still had other girls who hadn’t had a one-on-one date yet. And it wasn’t fair to give second dates to people who had already had one, when there were girls who hadn’t. He might be able to justify it next week — when there would be fewer women, and more time for him to spread around. But it just wasn’t going to happen this week.

He also wanted a second date with Sarah, and maybe Karen. But he wasn’t getting those either. The formula of the show was kind of restricting. So was his desire to be fair.

But the cards were done now. He just had to drop them off and see what happened. He could debate over this for hours and there was really nothing to do for it. It just was what it was.

John sighed heavily and gathered the invitations. He might as well get it over with.

~

“You’re making a fuss about nothing,” Emily was saying from the corner of the couch when Sherlock came back into the room for the invitation. “Try to maintain focus.”

Adele glanced at him, then away before she walked over and took a seat. Suspicious. Not like Sherlock didn’t know exactly what they were talking about anyway. That’s all the conversation had been since they had arrived. Apparently actually _seeing_ John kiss him was really just that shocking. That made absolutely no sense to him. They knew he was still here. They knew John had taken him on a one-on-one. Really, could they not have thought of this going on before now? Especially when one of the previous parties in question had constantly accused him of giving blowjobs to the man?

He settled down in his chair, just as Dave made his appearance, wearing distinctly summery clothes.

“Hello, ladies and gentleman,” he started, calmly bringing out the invitation. “I trust you’re enjoying the warm weather?”

A lot of the girls nodded. Sherlock tried to pretend he wasn’t incredibly uncomfortable. Of course they had to visit during a heat wave. Because he _loved_ being far too hot. Thank Christ for air conditioning. For once he did not wish to set one foot outside of their suites.

“As some of you may know, we’re approaching the halfway point on journey.” He smiled. “That means that, as of today, everyone will be on a date, whether it’s a group date or a one-on-one.”

A few girls cheered. Anna and Lucy looked especially delighted.

“With that said, the first invitation is here. I’ll leave it for you to read.” He dropped the note and disappeared as Lucy lunged.

“ _Lucy_ ,” she read with a squeal, “let’s brush up on our history.”

Phew. Sherlock counted himself lucky to have one more day far from the wretched sun. Idly he wondered if he could get his room any colder, without breaking the precious air conditioner.

He watched the celebrations and more-or-less false congratulations. Waiting for his escape, really, but knowing he couldn’t leave until everyone calmed down. Lucy was loud when she was excited, but very few of the other girls were genuinely happy for her. The jealousy was starting.

He could only hope that it would be entertaining for a while.

~

“Of course I’m ecstatic,” Lucy gleefully confirmed. “I’ve been waiting for this for weeks. I don’t even care what we’re doing, as long as it’s with John. I just want to show him how much he means to me, and get to talk to him and be completely open with him.”

She sighed with a smile.

“Hopefully he finds me as wonderful as I find him.”

~

The next day, Lucy stepped out of the car to meet John in front of an open air amphitheatre. The grass was growing around them, and the structure looming behind him looked more like ruins than a functional theatre. At the moment, though, John figured she didn’t care.

“John!” She called, running up to him. She threw herself into a hug around his waist, half pulling him off balance.

“Hello, then,” John laughed, trying to catch himself before falling. “They’re putting on Euripides’ _Helen,_ if you want to find a seat?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “I’ve never heard of it, but I’m sure it will be great.”

“It’s ancient Greek. Set after the Trojan war,” John supplied. It had sounded like a good play, and it wasn’t a tragedy. Thankfully. Far too many of the good Greek plays were and he really didn’t need to be depressing on dates. “You’ll see. It’s not set up like a regular play.”

“Well, I hope not.” They started walking towards the empty stone seats. “I’m not really a fan of theatre.”

John cringed on the inside. Hopefully _ancient Greek_ theatrics weren’t too much for Lucy to handle.

~

“I always seem to be the one who doesn’t understand what the big deal is about,” Emily sighed to a confessional. “I’ve had three different people try to talk to me about how — oh my God — John kissed Sherlock. Yes. I get it. We all saw.”

Her mouth twisted into a half-frown. “He’s kissed most of the rest of us too. Or we’ve kissed him. Girls are throwing themselves out there. Why can’t he share a moment with Sherlock? He’s here for the same reason as the rest of us. I like John too. It hurts to watch him kiss other people. But he’s already done it. Get over it.”

She sighed. “I just had to get that out. Sometimes, I think I’m going to lose my Zen in here.”

~

Emily had wisely put on a pair of headphones and taken her meditation to the sunny corner, beside the balcony. Sherlock wished he could do similar. He had noticed the split growing — it was a fascinating study in group dynamics. Slowly, over the last day, the women had split in to two camps: those who were okay with John kissing him, and those who were not.

Sure, one or two women seemed to be halfway between the two, but more or less, there were just the two sides. He got to sit in the middle, left alone but hearing all of it. Again he was struck by the apparent reality that it was all well and good when John was ambiguous about him being here, but when there was an overt display of affection involved that just seemed to be too much for so-called ‘virgin’ eyes to bear.

Adele had been antsy, the whole time. She seemed to want to watch soap operas with Laura, but wasn’t sure if she was welcome, since Laura was obviously in the opposite camp. She didn’t acknowledge Adele at all, and seemed to be completely indifferent as to whether or not the other girl sat down.

“I know you had a fight,” Karen said from the door to the hallway, “but I’m sure you can still sit down and watch, Adele.”

“I don’t want to intrude, is all,” Adele muttered, ashamed. She took a seat anyway.

“You’re not intruding if you don’t say anything rude,” Laura replied, harsher than usual. “If you can act like an adult, I can tolerate your company.”

“You’re acting more childish than I am!” Adele responded, moving to the furthest end of the couch. Sherlock kept reading. “I just wanted to talk to you. Try to get off your high fucking horse.”

“I will when you do,” Laura, snapped. “I don’t insult people who don’t deserve it when I’m upset.”

“Fine,” Adele snarled. “Sorry for being a little insecure.”

“Emily!” Karen said cheerily, having made her way over to the balcony window. “Can I join you?”

Emily pulled her headphones out and looked up. “I’d be delighted if you would.”

Sherlock smiled into his book. The conflict might have been unintentional, but it was going to be _so_ interesting to watch.

He wondered if there would be fist fights. Oh _please,_ let there be fist fights.

~

“All I said was that I didn’t like watching John and Sherlock kiss,” Adele whined. “She took it way out of proportion. I wasn’t saying I hate gays. I just don’t want to see the guy I like kissing another man.”

She looked around, as if she was trying to rally support.

“That’s not so bad, is it?”

~

“Her exact words,” Laura intoned flatly, “were: ‘That kiss was absolutely nasty.’ I think we’ve all had enough homophobia with Tara, and I wasn’t going to sit there and listen to her rail on about it like that. She said a few other things too. Not okay.”

~

Lucy had been quiet through the play. John wasn’t sure if she was engrossed or bored. It was definitely an odd and interesting spectacle, though. The way the chorus interacted with the sparse actors and the structural flow of the piece was beautiful, if strange.

He took her hand as they left, feeling her sigh and rest against his shoulder. They climbed the stairs mostly in silence. However this silence wasn’t comfortable like it was with Sarah, and it was moving dangerously towards the land of awkward.

“That was beautiful,” John ventured. “The acting was superb.”

“It was,” Lucy responded. “It was a bit hard to follow, but the romantic escape was totally worth it. I didn’t think Helen and Menelaus would make it out.”

“It really was a dramatic scene, wasn’t it?” John gently led her towards the car. They needed a ride back to the city.

“It was. I hope I can have that kind of love someday.” She sighed. “Us against the world. It’s just so incredible to have that much love for each other.”

John felt himself stiffen with uncertainty. That kind of drastic love was wonderful to watch on stage, but it was a hard reality and he’d seen how awful it was to be in love with someone when no one would approve. How much it hurt when you antagonized everyone around you by handling love all wrong.

“It’s a nice idea,” he compromised. It took him a second to fill the space and phrase his next sentence carefully. “I don’t care what people think of my relationships, and I don’t think you should. But that’s different than antagonizing everyone _with_ that relationship, I guess.”

 “But you don’t think it’s practical? That way you know you always rely on each other.” Lucy made a bit of a face as they settled in to the car, and she stared up at him as the driver pulled away.

“It just seems like a very angry way to love,” John said, trying to hold on to the politesse he found slipping. “Especially if you’re making them hate you.”

“Sometimes people just don’t approve,” she snapped. She seemed flabbergasted, like she couldn’t believe he wouldn’t want that kind of romanticized idea of love and conflict. “Friends and family can be stupid.”

“I can give you that. I just don’t think it’s as pleasant in reality, is all.” He was thinking of Harry. How bad it had been when she brought her first girlfriend home. The friends that had immediately spread rumours about her when she came out. The drinking, the attitude, the poison she spat when she didn’t want to help someone understand. The way she ruined her tentative friendships and held onto her lovers until their relationships lay in shambles around her. Clara.

He wasn’t sure he could talk about that any more.

“So,” he deflected after an awkward pause, “what’s been going on that I don’t know about?”

~

“Oh, if John knew about the drama he was causing,” Karen sighed. “I’m pretty sure he’d be disappointed with us for causing such a fuss about something so small.”

She shook her head gently.

“I just wish they’d leave Sherlock alone. Last thing he needs is to be drilled for details.”

~

Sherlock was genuinely wondering if he could manage to spend the rest of the day in his room. Surely this counted as a dire situation? He needed to leave for his own protection.

“So, just kissing then?” Cecelia asked sweetly. And fakely. “Nothing more?”

“My personal affairs are my business, thank you,” Sherlock retorted. He wasn’t about to indulge her or Andrea in this matter. He was trying not to read too far into anything himself — especially since he had the more than probable suspicion that it would amount to fuck all.

“We can bully it out of you,” Andrea laughed. She had gotten a touch less friendly after the kiss incident (as it was now catalogued) but she hadn’t been terrified or rude. Just less gentle. However, her threats were still laughable, and he had to actually suppress a snicker. He’d been interrogated by far more formidable opponents.

“You could try,” Sherlock agreed, settling back in to a book. He was getting far too much reading done, lately. “But I doubt it would be successful.”

“Why so stubborn?” Andrea’s teasing was almost friendly but Cecelia’s just had an undercurrent of burning jealousy.

“I like my privacy.” Sherlock threw back his head and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Formality was working. He deflected them and pretended to not be rushing to his room. No one could begrudge him a few hours of peace.

Right?

~

“So, yeah, dramatic,” Lucy said with a sigh. “I mean, I know why it’s getting dramatic, but I’m not sure anyone expected the rifts to get this bad so quickly. Last week we were fine, and this week everybody is breaking apart.”

“Do you think it’s the competition or is it something I did?” John’s frown deepened. One thing Lucy was great for was gossip. With a simple question he had quickly discovered that she was a reliable news source. Something he really needed right now.

“Maybe?” Lucy shrugged. “Honestly, I think it’s something that will happen regardless. It’s part of the competition. No matter what you do, you’ll step on somebody’s toes. You could eat your soup the wrong way and we’d be trying to read into it. It’s just the fact that we’re focusing so much on you.”

John nodded. That was definitely true. Not that he was happy about that scrutiny.

“It’s just because we love you, John,” Lucy said with a smile.

“Thanks for the reassurance.” He didn’t really sound convincing, but Lucy laughed anyway.

“I could spend all night with you. And the other girls want that too. Every night.” She smiled and batted her eyes a little. John smiled back, a little more at ease.

“I’m enjoying it too,” he replied. And it was mostly true.

Conversation with Lucy had been easy, though not very deep. It had been somewhat relaxing, though, and not that bad for a first date alone. If they had been dating in a more casual setting, he probably would have taken her out a second time.

That was enough for him, but somehow he felt like it shouldn’t be. She was kind of vapid and really not as drawing as a lot of the other girls...or Sherlock. Fuck, his thoughts were getting maddeningly circular and he still didn’t really want to think about why. Especially not now. Now was not the time to be fascinated with the complexities of his budding gay relationship. Now was the time to focus on Lucy.

“Lucy,” he said softly, grabbing the rose from the table. He really hoped he wasn’t making a mistake here.

“Yeah, John?” she murmured, suddenly breathless.

“Will you accept this rose?”

She leaned in to kiss him, deeply.

~

“I love him so much,” Lucy whispered. “He’s deep and thoughtful and so good natured. I can’t imagine anyone better for me. He’s perfect.”

She stared at the rose in her hands, an expression lost just before tears.

~

“Lucy’s nice,” John said. “I like her. I’m not sure how much yet, but I _do_ like her.” That felt like a bit of a lie, especially the considering the fact that he had to restrain a grimace through that kiss.  However, it didn’t much matter right now. At the very least he could give her one more chance.

~

There was a sudden hush when Sherlock returned to the common room. Not like he hadn’t expected that. He was used to these kinds of whispers, and had learned to ignore them over the years. Just like he was going to now.

The girls _watched_ as he walked over to his usual seat and sat down. Conversation sparsely began again as he picked up his book. A few of the women looked guilty, but he didn’t bother to note which ones. It wasn’t worth his brain power.

He was well settled into his chair, and conversation had returned to normal before Dave showed up, invitation in hand.

“Hello, everyone,” he said, keeping in line with his less formal Athens persona. “Are we ready to learn about tomorrow’s date?”

“Yes!” Some of the girls answered obediently. Sherlock just waited. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be good, but maybe, just this once, he would be wrong.

“Good. Here you are,” he said, handing his envelope to Sarah and disappearing.

 She stood up to read it.

“Andrea, Cecelia, Sarah, Adele, Emily, Amelia, Sherlock, Anna, Laura, Karen,” She said, all in one breath. “Let’s set sail for love.”

No, he wasn’t wrong. Fuck.

“Oh my gosh, sailing!” someone screamed. Outside on a boat in forty degree weather? Woohoo. He didn’t think he could restrain his excitement.

“It’s going to be amazing,” Anna sighed. She looked like she could swoon at any moment.  Sherlock wasn’t sure what was amazing about being cooked alive, but apparently he was the only one not understanding.

“It’s going to be a great day tomorrow,” Emily said, patting him on the back. “It’ll be good for you to get out.”

What, was he some kind of hermit now? He wasn’t stuck in a hotel everyday by choice. At least, he didn’t think the hotel bit was his choice.

 “Thanks,” was the polite response he managed.

There was no way this date would end well for him. But he was going out regardless. He’d made the choice to stay there and he was _staying_. And he’d see John in the meantime.

Mycroft could go _fuck_ himself if he said a word about it.

~

It took about an hour to get them to a port on the Aegean sea. An hour in a tight car, with seven gossiping women and...thirty-four degree heat. He had managed to dig out somewhat lighter clothes — a white button up, and charcoal trousers, which were better than black he _supposed_ — but he somehow doubted that would help. Most of the women were wearing minidresses with swimming suits underneath.

 He was envious of their wardrobe selection. Despite his preference to not show skin, if he could be wearing a minidress and a swimsuit right now? He would be grateful. And look ridiculous and feel stupid, but at least he wouldn’t be hot anymore. By the time they tumbled out of the cars in front of John and a sailboat, he was already sweating. He immediately noticed the sun’s relentless glare and how humid and thick the air was outside the car. Already it was getting increasingly uncomfortable. If felt like he was suffocating in the stomach of a very sweaty and very obese person, the folds slowly smothering him.

This really just wasn’t his climate.

“Hello, everyone!” John called from beside the sailboat. He was wearing a pair of swimming trunks and a short sleeved button up. He gestured to an older gentleman, sitting quietly on the sailboat. “Come meet Alexandros!”

The excited rush towards the seaside left Sherlock walking behind the skittering women. By the time they got there, Alexandros had climbed down to stand beside John, idly fiddling with one of the boat ties before turning towards the cameras. He was obviously dressed for work and not showmanship; his trousers were rough but sturdy, and his shoes were practical, hair combed but not styled. Obviously a small business man. Loved the boat more than fame, judging by the way he focused on the sails and ties rather than on the camera. He didn’t try to stand out, and seemed to be friendly with John but not familiar. A quiet man who loved his work.

Sherlock supposed he should be happy about that. A responsible and calm captain meant no boat crashes. He didn’t need a boiling in the warm sea to go with his already starting sunburn.

“Alright,” John began, clearly excited. “Obviously, we’re setting sail on the Aegean sea today. Alexandros has kindly lent his boat to us. The only catch is that we’re doing the sailing.”

John smiled and waited for the excited and nervous exclamations to end.

“Alexandros is going to accompany us, and he’ll show us what we need to do — but we’re doing all the work. So be prepared to sweat a bit!”

Oh, yes. Sherlock was so excited. Joyous. _Overwhelmed._

So much for not crashing the boat.

~

“I love sailing!” Karen half-shouted, wind whipping through her hair. “I haven’t gone for years, but this is going to be amazing. And it’s a perfect day for it! I really can’t wait to get out there and start looking around.”

~

“I’ve never been before,” Anna said, barely louder than the sea itself. “I’m excited, but I’m also really glad we’re not going alone. I don’t think John and I could handle a boat by ourselves.”

~

Alexandros had been showing them the ropes — literally — for a while now. They were keeping the ship just offshore, so they could always see a place to land. Just in case. Not that John expected anything to go wrong. It’s just that this was reality television and the producers weren’t keen on them potentially drowning no matter how slight the chance might be. It was more a matter of hedging bets. If something _did_ go wrong, they wanted to be able disembark quickly.

But the women and Sherlock had taken to sailing very easily. There was a surprising amount of rope pulling, and enough downtime that they all had a chance to socialize. Especially since Alexandros insisted on doing anything complex himself. The boat was his child — amateurs had to be supervised.

John had begun his usual system of pulling girls aside for alone time. He decided to start with Laura.

“My turn?” she asked sweetly, as he tapped on her shoulder. “Awesome. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“My conversation isn’t that good,” John chuckled, lightly.

“It’s obviously better than you think it is,” she responded. “You’ve got a dozen people looking for your affection. That’s gotta count for something.”

~

“I love talking to John,” Laura said later. “He’s so open and unassuming. It’s like we’ve known each other for years. Childhood friends, or something. He just needs to stop being so modest about himself. If I hear one more word about how his conversation can’t be that good or he’s not that interesting? I might have to scream at him.”

~

Talking to Laura had been pleasant, but he was doing his best to keep things short and keep the conversations moving. Laura didn’t seem to mind, and his conversation with Anna also went well, but he felt a little guilty for being so terse. Group dates were definitely starting to get awkward.

John took a careful look around the boat to check on everyone before he went off to find someone else to talk to. He had noticed Sherlock looking a bit green around the edges when he got on the ship, and the last thing he wanted was to have a seasick consulting detective. Or a seasick anyone else for that matter. Most of the girls looked fine. Anna looked a bit nervous and jumpy, but she didn’t look sick.

He caught a glimpse of Sherlock. Paler than usual and unhappy looking, though so far fine. John’s brow furrowed, regardless. He might be standing but he wasn’t looking great.

On his way over to check on Sherlock, Cecelia grabbed his arm.

“My turn?” she said with a smile. John glanced at Sherlock and Emily, who seemed to be keeping an eye on him. He looked alright for the moment. Cecelia tugged sharply. “Come on, John.”

He sighed and made a note to talk to Sherlock next as she dragged him off.

~

Sherlock felt sick. He had rolled his sleeves up, but he was sweating, and his heart was beating a mile a minute. He felt dizzy too, to top it off. And he really just wasn’t in the mood or small talk with Emily.

“Just don’t let them get to you,” she was saying, tugging on the same rope he was. “They’re being stupid, and you don’t deserve that.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

 He didn’t really have the heart to tell her to fuck off and let him be sick in peace. Mostly because he needed allies rather than enemies, if half the women were going to hate him. And his show of helping pull the ropes wouldn’t work so well if he passed out while doing it. Having a second person pick up his slack was definitely helpful.

He watched as John was accosted by Cecelia — who had already stripped down to her bikini — and dragged off for another conversation.

No escape route for him yet. Damn.

~

“He doesn’t look so great,” Emily said to a camera. “It’s been a rough few days, I would think, with a lot of the girls fighting over him. Honestly, he’s a lot less psychotic and emotional than most of the women. I don’t mind him at all.”

She shook her head, looking worried. “I just hope this doesn’t hit him too hard.”

~

Cecelia had dodged in and ‘stolen’ him — to use her term — after he had finished with Anna. He wasn’t sure if that level of forcefulness was necessary, but alright. It didn’t matter much to him what order he talked to each of them. Everyone would get a chance anyway.

What bothered him was how guilty she was making him feel.

 “I mean, a few of us were surprised. The difference between knowing it’s happening and seeing it is a huge.” She smiled, half-sadly. “It’s just hard to deal with the reality.”

“I know,” John said, as comforting as he could be while being stubborn. He couldn’t really say he was sorry for kissing Sherlock. He wasn’t. And it bothered him to think that people thought he _should_ be. He genuinely didn’t want to hurt these women; he liked them. But he liked Sherlock too and he was going to treat him equally. “But Sherlock’s here for the same reason the rest of you are — this shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“Yeah,” Cecelia said, sadly. John cringed a bit, feeling guilty, even though he knew he shouldn’t. It hurt to see her upset, even if he didn’t agree with the reasoning. “A bit of reassurance wouldn’t hurt, though.”

John smiled. He could give that. “None of you would be here if I didn’t like you. You don’t need to worry.”

“I was thinking more of a kiss for me,” she returned, greedily. He sighed, leaned in and pecked her on the cheek. Demands like that didn’t sit well, and he felt all the guilt that had just built up vanish.

All he got in return was a weak smile.

~

“Boo,” Cecelia sulked. “I was hoping for more than a little measly peck. I’m putting myself out here, swimsuit and all. He can’t give me a little more affection?”

~

Sherlock dropped the rope suddenly and leaned over the railing to retch. Not a good sign.

“Hey!” Emily yelled. “You alright?”

“Yes,” he tried to say. It came out more of a ‘yyyeeeeeeeeh’. But whatever.

“Seasick?” Laura asked, calmly. She and Karen had come to visit after their duties had been taken over by Alexandros. “Don’t lean too far; we don’t want a man overboard.”

Sherlock stiffened his stomach muscles, forcibly stopping the contractions. He’d be damned if he was going to get sick on this trip. There was nothing like vomit to ruin someone’s opinion of you and, well...it was just an unpleasant experience that he’d managed to avoid for several years now. Mind you, forcing yourself to _not_ regurgitate your lunch felt far worse than actually regurgitating it. Violent, painful, suppression was not helping his already dizzy and nauseous state of being, and now his muscles were aching too.

But he did have control of himself.

“I may need to sit for a moment, is all,” he said, calmly. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

He almost believed that, as he clutched to the railing. As long as he didn’t have to move too much, he should be okay.

~

After three conversations and a lot of fuss over Sherlock, John was feeling a bit like an idiot.  Apparently he should have thought more before he did things — and that implication in itself was bothering him. He didn’t have to think before he did things with the girls; it wasn’t fair that Sherlock didn’t get the same reaction.

And by this point he just wanted to see him and make sure he was alright and that the drama hadn’t sunk its teeth into a surly consulting detective.

He spotted Sherlock again leaning against a railing, talking to a few of the girls. He really did look a bit miserable, and he was barely making eye contact with anyone but the deck. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the railing he leaned on and a flush had spread over his cheeks, and John knew it. Something was wrong.

The other man smiled weakly at him and tried to stand up, pushing away from the rail with far too much strain. His eyes seemed to unfocus for a second as he straightened. Deep in the pit of his stomach, John felt a ball tighten and drop. Walking faster, he watched as Sherlock took a step towards him, stumbled heavily, and dropped to the deck, out cold.

 “Shit,” John said, rushing forward. Sherlock was worse than he’d thought. Not good. Karen, Emily, and Laura were obviously panicking. John couldn’t blame them.

“Pull him away from the side,” John commanded, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders and dragging him a ways away with Karen’s help. He sat and laid Sherlock’s head in his lap, supporting him enough to keep him from moving with the boat. “What happened?”

“’M fine,” Sherlock muttered, angrily, as he came back into consciousness. Colour had completely drained from his already pale face, and he still couldn’t seem to keep his head up. John was surprised he was still managing to speak coherently. “You don’t have to worry.”

John decided to ignore him, and did a quick check up. Skin was warm to the touch, pulse was fast and strong, and Sherlock stumbled when they helped him get up, like he was too weak to stand or was losing motor control. Heat stroke. Fuck.

“Come on, let’s get you to the shade,” John said, thrusting an arm around his shoulders for support. He started to lead Sherlock to some of the rather sparse shade on the other side of the boat, more carrying him than leading him, and running through a million treatments in his head. They had to cool him down. Start with the shade.

“I said I’m fine,” Sherlock growled, trying to shrug him off. Weakly.  The action was more like a slight raise of the arms rather than anything else, as John continued to basically drag him along. And his voice was shaking, which was really not adding strength to Sherlock’s argument. They needed to get off this boat and into some air conditioning. And possibly a cold bath.

“Alexandros,” John called, settling Sherlock in to a shady sitting position, “can you steer us to shore?”

“What’s going on?” One of the girls asked, nervously. Laura. She seemed scared. “Is he okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes rolled in to the back of his head as he lost consciousness again. Fortunately, John caught him before he slumped to the metal deck. It took a few seconds to move him into the recovery position and unbutton his shirt. Sherlock’s chest was quivering with how quickly and shallowly he was breathing, and it was slick with sweat. This was really not good.

He almost forgot to answer Laura’s question.

“He’s got heat stroke.” John’s eyes never left his patient. Panic. He wasn’t sure how a trained doctor could be this panicky. Freaking out this badly was _not_ conducive to medical efficiency. Yelling and shaking Sherlock was going to help no one but the urge was still there. He left Sherlock’s shirt opened, but didn’t strip it off. “Can someone me get me some cool water?”

 “Do we need to take him to a hospital?” Andrea asked, as Sherlock came to again. Sarah had grabbed the nearest woman — Anna — and scurried off to get water.

“Not as long as we can get him inside. Or at least off this boat.” They really needed to get off this boat. Sherlock’s eyes were unfocused, and again he tried to lift his head but failed. It was like he could barely catch his breath, as he shuddered from the effort it must be taking to stay conscious and talking.

“I am _not_ going to a hospital,” Sherlock grumbled, but feebly. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” John snapped. Someone needed to remind Sherlock of the definition of ‘fine’. “The car and medical team should have been shadowing us from the shore. Has someone called them?”

A cameraman nodded silently, pointing at his phone. John hadn’t even heard him talking. Whatever, help was waiting. That was what he needed to know right now.

“How long ‘til shore, Alexandros?” He called. Sherlock looked like he was weakly trying to hoist himself back into a sitting position, so John settled a hand on his shoulders. Staying still minimized the chances of fainting.

“Three minutes,” Alexandros called, his thick accent booming. He seemed to be running the ship alone. A Greek hero saving his crew singlehandedly. “You worry about him, I’ll get you back to shore.”

Sarah chose that moment to come back with both a bucket, and a cloth. Without saying anything, she started making a compress with a spare towel, and passed it to them. John hoped they could cool him down fast enough to avoid anything serious.

~

“Oh my God, not good,” Anna said quietly. “He looked like he was dying. I don’t think anyone expected that.”

~

“Who the fuck doesn’t mention when they’re slowly succumbing to heat stroke?” Laura exclaimed, obviously distressed. There was a palpable note of panic in her voice. “I appreciate the attempt to keep the date going, but really? Medical emergencies versus time with John? I think the medical emergency wins. No matter who loses time with John, the medical emergency wins.”

~

“I hope this won’t end the date,” Cecelia whined. “It’s not like I don’t feel bad for him, but it’s so unfair to the rest of us. There’s a whole medical team to take care of him — it’s not like John has to do it.”

~

Sherlock stumbled carefully off the boat, supported by John, and looking rather disheveled. John helped him in to the back seat of the car, where he immediately slumped against the window. Fortunately, the air conditioning was on.

“Okay, hold on just a moment, Sherlock,” John murmured softly. “I just have to call an end to this shenanigan, and I’ll be right back.”

“Go back,” Sherlock rasped.

John leveled a glare at him. “Not a chance. I’m not letting a silly date come before _anyone’s_ health, thank you.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed involuntarily. He weakly cringed and shook his head before answering slowly and carefully.

“They won’t...like that,” he murmured, struggling with the words. He could barely form the sounds.

“I don’t want to date anyone who has a problem with that,” John retorted vehemently, being more firm than he wanted to be. Sherlock was scaring him. “And you need to lie still. I’ll be back shortly.”

After making sure he was settled and alright for the time being, John stepped back outside. Most of the girls were some degree of distressed. Sarah was calmly talking to Laura, who seemed a little sick herself. John decided to check in with her.

“It’s alright,” she was saying softly. “He’s not so far gone that we have to worry about brain damage or fatalities or anything. He’ll be fine as long as we keep him cool for the next twelve hours or so.”

“You’re sure?” Laura said, starting to calm down. “He doesn’t need a hospital?”

“A hospital would send him home, most likely,” John answered, calmly. “As long as he has someone to watch him and a cool place to go. Which he does.”

“Okay. Okay, good,” Laura said, a bit ruffled, but relieved. “As long as he’s alright. It’s awful that this had to happen.”

“Yeah,” John said, in complete agreement. Heat stroke and illness were definitely up there in worst case scenarios. He was still in a bit of a fog. He turned to Sarah. “I just wanted to thank you for helping out.”

“Not a problem,” she said with a smile. “It’s not like I’ve never helped out a doctor before.”

“Still,” John said, not quite able to laugh. The panic might be over, but he was still worrying. “It’s so wonderful to have you supporting me like that. Especially out here, too. I just hope none of the girls are in shock.”

Sarah gave him a _look_. Not a smoldering, sexy look. More of a you-don’t-want-to-know look. “I’ll check but I don’t think we have to worry about it. You’re calling it off for the day?”

“Yeah,” John confirmed. “I just have to announce that the date is finished.”

“Go on, then,” she said. “Get it over with.”

He moved to a place where he was more visible before clearing his throat. It didn’t take much to grab everyone’s attention.

“Ladies,” he said, as loudly as he could, and feeling somewhat silly. He shouldn’t have to _announce_ this. “I think we all know that we’re heading back to the hotel, yeah?”

“What?” Cecelia asked, shocked. “Is the medical team not taking care of him?”

John tried valiantly to control his expression. He still frowned. “Even if they are, we’re not going back out there when one of us is unwell. Another of you could get heat stroke, or something serious could happen to Sherlock. I’m not going to be responsible for either of those options. I’ll see all of you back at the hotel.”

The women were silent. Sarah started to herd them into the cars, checking for signs of shock as she did so. Most of them seemed fine. A few were worried and asked a couple questions about how Sherlock was. Some were just angry. John simply crawled back into the car with Sherlock and left without looking back.

He didn’t want to be disappointed in the girls he had picked.

~

“I feel like an ass,” Karen said, head in her hands. “I should have noticed he was really not-okay sick before he passed out. I just figured he was a bit down because of the stuff going on.”

She sighed. “Sometimes I think I’ve got him pegged all wrong.”

~

“I’m just glad I could help,” Sarah sighed, smiling happily at the camera. “If it makes John feel more secure and comfortable, I’m happy I can be there. I really think he’d be disappointed with how many girls are more concerned about the date than Sherlock, though.”

~

“Fuck,” Adele swore. “I didn’t get any time with John, and now I’m _not_ getting any. How the hell am I supposed to make up for that? How am I supposed to relate to him if I never have a chance to build a relationship?”

~

“Sherlock,” John murmured, watching the consulting detective struggle to keep his eyes open, slumping miserably against the window, “is the air conditioning helping?”

Sherlock’s eyes were a bit wild as he nodded slightly and mouthed the word ‘yes’. John’s fear level spiked a bit. There was really nothing more terrifying than watching someone you...liked a lot — that’s what he was going with — struggle with something as simple as nodding. He needed to get Sherlock cooled down. Immediately.

 Scrambling for the fresh bottle of water the crew kept tucked in the cup holder, John shifted in his seat to get a bit closer to Sherlock. Slowly pulling the cap off, he placed his hand at the back of the detective’s neck and tilted his head up. He had to be gentle, even though Sherlock was giving the weakest protest he had ever seen.

“’M fine,” he rasped out. Forcibly, John stopped his hand from trembling and raised the water bottle to his lips.

“Drink.” A command, not a question. Sherlock frowned and shook his head slowly. “Drink some water.”

 “I don’t want any.” His enunciation was coming back as they talked more. John hated watching that cringed expression and movement of Sherlock’s eyes beneath close eyelids. He was a doctor. It was his job to fix these things.

“You’re severely dehydrated and you need some.” He pressed the bottle to Sherlock’s lips again. “Drink, Sherlock.”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, not opening his eyes. Managing to wrest the bottle from John, he took a quick sip on his own.

“More,” John ordered. They had to get him better hydrated, at the very least. Until they could cool him down properly. The air conditioning in a car was okay, but not nearly proper care. And, yes, _fine_ , John was fretting. And would continue to fret, thank you very much. He was entitled to that at least. “How are you feeling?”

That got a response.

“Like I could fly, John,” Sherlock snapped. “Really, how do you think I feel? Nauseous and sick and awful, thank you.”

John smiled a bit and tugged Sherlock’s sleeve. “At least you’re still talking. Lie down.”

“I don’t need to,” Sherlock grumbled. But his eyes stayed firmly shut and he didn’t really fight as John guided his head to his lap. “I’m fine.”

He settled comfortably as John gently stroked his cheek. It felt good, soft, comforting, even though it was a bit warm. It was nice to have some sort of contact with Sherlock, because — as not-deadly as heat stroke is — John was worried.

The drive seemed to take a year, just to add to that worry. He watched as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered half-open, dazed and unable to process or even fully take in what was going on around him. Then they would flutter closed again and the detective’s brow would crease, like he was listening ever so intently. As the minutes eased by, the crease lightened and Sherlock drifted back out of consciousness.

John _knew_ that there was nothing unusual in that. Of course he needed sleep — heat stroke took a lot out of a person. Rest was both normal and good. Not talking was okay. But feeling the silence weigh heavily upon them, letting the knowledge of something not right surround him, was absolutely unpleasant. Normally John could do his job, wish the soldier luck, and head out to the next victim. He saw them in visits and checkups. He didn’t have to watch the aftermath or the in-between.

His hand on Sherlock’s head helped. Feeling the deep slow breaths of the man beside him helped. He focused on it, held on to that, and breathed through that. But the hour back to the hotel room still felt like far too long.

When the car finally pulled into the drive, John felt a sigh of relief rush through him.

“C’mon, Sherlock,” he said, shifting himself and lifting Sherlock upwards at the same time. “Let’s get you into the hotel.”

Sherlock pressed his brows together, harshly and firmly, like he was trying to dislodge something deep in his head. He wobbled a little, even just sitting up. But oddly, John didn’t get any protest.

Getting out of the car first, John leaned back in to pull Sherlock out, gently and slowly, by the shoulders. This time Sherlock swatted him.

“I can get out on my own,” he said firmly. Confident. And he _did_ move out of the car with a graceful ease and poise...that he immediately lost with his footing.

“Hey!” Swinging forward, John caught Sherlock before he went headlong into the car door. “Let me help.”

Sherlock frowned. And then shut his eyes with a plaintive, nauseous...fear. He seemed sick and like he wanted help and at the same time was disturbed by all these things at once.

John slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist and helped him forward. The first few steps towards the stairs were okay, not too shaky. The front stairs themselves were a mess. Eyes closed, not fully hearing John’s warning, Sherlock’s foot slammed flat into the first step. If John hadn’t been holding him, he would have gone flat on his face. That got him to flutter his eyelids open for just long enough to see the stairs and slowly begin to feel his way up them. One foot up, search for the step, down. Other foot lands beside it. Repeat.

“Next step,” John murmured, trying to help. Sherlock nodded slightly. “Almost there.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered again, eyes still closed, swaying slightly as he cusped the top step. “I’ll be fine.”

“You will once we get you up to the hotel room,” John said with a gentle guiding push. “Just a lift and a hallway left.”

“Fabulous,” Sherlock drawled. It was absolutely a feat that he could sound so composed and in control while swaying, dizzy, exhausted, and stumbling. John was sure he was nauseous, especially by how he grimaced when the lift closed and began its upward travel with a jerk. When it stopped, Sherlock’s hand gripped his tighter for a moment before pushing away and walking down the hallway on his own.

John followed, watching the trail of his fingers on the wall, the way Sherlock couldn’t quite walk steadily, and — almost more importantly — how well he hid the sickness. If John hadn’t known that Sherlock was sick, he would never have been able to tell.

Sherlock’s card reader beeped and he pushed the door open, John hovering behind him as he kicked off his shoes, stumbling the two steps over to the bed, and collapsing in it unceremoniously. When John tried to roll him onto his side, he met with dead weight.

“Leave me here.” Sherlock was obviously not sleeping yet. “I’m fine now.”

“I’m not leaving you _anywhere_ ,” John sighed. “We need to get you cooled down.”

“I’m fine.” He kept repeating that but John wasn’t about to believe it. He busied himself with Sherlock’s shirt buttons, popping the first one easily and moving on to the second.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock groaned, half-heartedly batting at John’s hands. John steadfastly kept unbuttoning.

“I’m cooling you down. We’re going to take your shirt off and get a cold compress for you.” Sherlock groaned, but his efforts to push John’s hands away were feeble. The intention was there — the motion he made was strong and purposeful — but he simply didn’t have the energy to follow through. Those weak protests just shook him more. More than anything, he was glad the cameras weren’t there to distract his already frazzled attention.

By the time Sherlock’s shirt was unbuttoned, the consulting detective’s eyes had fluttered closed again. John checked his heartbeat, which was still a bit fast, and paused, listening to his shallow breathing and feeling the pounding ribcage beneath his hand. Everything slowed down and gathered in that moment; John could feel his concentration come back and his calm return.

It only took a moment to get the cold compress together and to place it firmly and unceremoniously on Sherlock’s chest.

“FUCK,” Sherlock swore with a jump and a small flail. John would have probably laughed if he wasn’t worried out of his mind right now. “That’s COLD.”

“Yes, we need to get you cooled off. You have _heat_ stroke.” The doctor couldn’t believe that someone with an elevated body temperature could actually manage to complain about a cold compress, but here they were.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be _that_ cold.” Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, and fixed him with eyes that would have been glaring if they weren’t still very unfocussed. John rubbed his face with his hand and gave an exasperated sigh before pressing the cloth into Sherlock’s chest and forcing him to lay back down.

That was about all Sherlock could manage, as John swabbed him down and eased him in to relaxed half-sleep.

Alternating slowly between that and cooling his forehead, Sherlock was finally starting to cool down. It was such a ridiculous sense of relief to see the panting smooth out a bit and feel his body temperature start to lower. Watching Sherlock come back to a normal state was an almost euphoric feeling. Which John happily kept to himself. He didn’t need to admit that he felt _that_ much better as Sherlock started to heal. The consulting detective had enough on his mind without John bringing up feelings again. Even if he was feeling better.

And John could tell how much better he was feeling by the growing protestations.

“Oh, come off it, John,” Sherlock snapped, still weakly trying to roll over. John noted that his motor control was coming back a bit. “You’ve been sitting here for two hours looking like a fucking mourner at a grave. It’s just heat stroke.”

“Last I checked, heat stroke is a pretty serious condition, Sherlock,” John retorted, continuing to mop his compress along the detective’s chest, despite Sherlock’s attempts to remove it. “We need to cool you down before something serious happens.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock growled. “Go out and play with your harem. I’m sure they all want to kill me by now.”

That was a bit mean, but John suspected Sherlock was the surly and unwilling type of patient. It almost made him smile.

“I don’t care,” John said, carefully precise. He needed Sherlock to hear exactly how _much_ he didn’t care. “They will survive without me for one day. _You_ need to calm down and rest.”

“Just _go_ ,” Sherlock whined, writhing slightly on the bed as he spoke. John wondered if he’d have to force him to stay still. “This can’t be pleasant for you. Just leave me to my misery.”

Just leave him. As if John _could_. As if he’d want to. As if somehow worrying over people was just an inconvenience and not a sign of affection.

“I’m not going _anywhere_ , so you will have to suffer through my presence.” John sniffed a bit and checked his temperature again, doing his best to not be cranky. Sherlock was very good at provoking people. Including John. “I’m worried about you.”

Leaving now wouldn’t fix anything, and watching Sherlock made him feel a little less...helpless. That was part of what doctoring was all about. But more importantly, he needed to feel like he was in control of at least something. Helping the healing process was the only thing he could do.

“Fine.” Sherlock lay still finally. And closed his eyes. “But I’m going to sleep and you’ll be bored.”

“Good,” John breathed. The tightness in his chest loosened a bit at Sherlock`s grumpy announcement. Even if he was just trying to get John to leave, sleep was good. It was getting closer to evening anyways. Half past four. “Sleep is a good thing.”

“John, _please_ ,” Sherlock whined violently rolling over again. “I’m not that sick. I’m a bit tired, but I’ll be fine. They’re going to kill both of us if you don’t get back out there.”

John frowned. “They will live. As will you. I’m going to watch until I’m satisfied that you’re feeling better.”

Sherlock frowned and tried to sit up. Weakly, though, and he caved easily when John pushed him back down.

“Go to sleep, Sherlock.” Sherlock harrumphed as his eyes fluttered closed. John couldn’t ask for anything more. Sherlock was trying to sleep and he could stay and make sure he recovered. That was all they needed right now.

~

“He’s got the door propped a bit, but he’s barely come out,” Sarah sighed. “He had supper and that’s more or less it. At this point, I’m more worried about John than Sherlock. Compounding his problems by not sleeping wouldn’t really be smart.”

~

“Fuck him too,” Adele said, sharply. “I’m not sure I can take much more of this nonsense. First he’s kissing the guy, now he’s holed up in his room, like his lover is dying. From what I can tell, the git will be fine. There are a dozen women out here waiting on him hand and foot, and he sits beside the sick gay man for four hours and basically tells us to fuck off. Sherlock’s not the only one here, you know.”

Adele took a deep breath and let herself relax. She closed her eyes, opened them again, frowned, and looked away. “I’m not sure I want to be here, anymore.”

~

Sherlock really did sleep. Soundly.  Fortunately and unfortunately for John. On one hand, Sherlock was a more agreeable patient when he was asleep. On the other, now John’s panic got to focus inward.

He really didn’t want to leave. He _could_ , that wasn’t the problem. The medical team was perfectly capable of taking care of a heat stroke patient. But this heat stroke patient was Sherlock, and John wanted to be the one to take care of him. It wasn’t really fair. He should be out talking to the girls and giving out a rose and finishing off their date. He didn’t want to, though, so he didn’t.

And he was trying in vain to convince himself that he would do the same for every woman too.

The truth was he would to some extent or another. He would take them back to the house, and call off the date and take care of them himself. But he wouldn’t feel half as desperate about it. He wouldn’t feel this welling panic and the clenching of his heart. Not for many of the girls.

Maybe if it were Sarah, though.

But that was a problem in itself. He could actually see himself in a future with Sarah. There would be talk of children, and romantic dinners, and a passionate honeymoon. He hadn’t really thought about future possibilities in relation to Sherlock. Obviously, he needed to.

He didn’t have to be gay to like Sherlock. And he did. Really like Sherlock. A lot. But he’d never really thought about this going much further. Somehow, he figured that Sherlock would have left or he would have not been able to picture them as a couple. Sherlock was still here, and — God help him — he could definitely see their relationship going further. He didn’t quite know how much further, but he did know that he was rather serious about this particular relationship. Not something he had expected, but he was getting used to accepting that reality.

John trailed a hand lightly against Sherlock’s cheek. He was cooler now, and John felt okay about tucking the sheet in a bit tighter. Watching him sleep made it hard to remember that this fragile man was also Sherlock.

Sherlock was intelligent, abrasive, and fascinating. And handsome, though he was still mildly shocked with himself for finding another man handsome. He wanted to kiss Sherlock. And date Sherlock. And maybe plan a future. If Sherlock didn’t want to do the same, John would be crushed. He had been in control of this very strange foray into love before this. Now he wasn’t so sure.

He felt just as strongly about some of the women. That wasn’t a doubt. But he had sort of expected that. He hadn’t expected _this._ Or anything _else_ that Sherlock brought with him.

 John could walk without a cane, for Christ’s sake. Legitimately. He hadn’t dragged it with him on the boat, and he didn’t really use it anymore except as a security blanket. That was all Sherlock. For one man to do so much to John’s psyche after years of war...was astounding. For one man to know a ton of his history from the way he stood and his haircut was fantastic.

And the fact that this one man seemed to like him, and to not be overly friendly with anyone else, was incredible.

But John didn’t just feel privileged. He didn’t look at Sherlock and feel a sense of awe or gratitude or something equally remote. It was just raw _liking_. He _liked_ the slightly derogatory conversations, the grumbling determination to not be sick, the shock when John was nice to him. The fact that Sherlock was nice back. Keeping this dynamic alive was important. Making sure Sherlock knew that he liked him was _very_ important.

Knowing that Sherlock liked him back would be a relief.

He could deal with all the other repercussions of this fact later. He could deal with the burgeoning sexual attraction, the tugging of his heart strings. He couldn’t put away the fact that he was terrified when something happened to Sherlock. Or the fact that he really wanted him to be as serious as John was. Somehow he needed to have this conversation with Sherlock — make sure they were both on the same page, so to speak. That Sherlock liked him too and could probably go ahead with this. Something had to happen.

Tentatively, John put out his hand and rested it on the other man’s forehead, taking in the feeling of the slight physical contact. He stroked back Sherlock’s hair, wondering if he could fit all of this into a fifteen minute before-the-rose-ceremony conversation.

~

John started awake the next morning, still curled up in the chair beside Sherlock’s bed. He was pretty rumpled, and fairly achy, but very relieved to hear Sherlock’s voice.

“You really didn’t have to stay,” the consulting detective grumbled. He had put on a fresh shirt and trousers and looked more or less normal. “I was fine.”

John didn’t answer. He simply stood up, walked over to where Sherlock was standing and placed two fingers on his wrist, checking his pulse. Steady, strong, and quick, but not too quick. Skin was cool to the touch. Good.

“Once again, I’m fine,” Sherlock said, more gently this time. “Stop worrying so much.”

“I’m glad,” John answered softly, hand still on Sherlock’s wrist. “I’m also glad I stayed.”

“John, I’m sure you knew I was going to be fine without having to hover by my bedside all night.” Sherlock pulled away and stretched, before rummaging in his bag. “You’re going to be sore and tired today for no reason.”

“I feel better, though,” John admitted. He needed to tell Sherlock how he felt.

“Emotionally, only, I’m sure,” Sherlock retorted, not unfriendly in tone. In fact, he sounded more amused than angry. “You worry far too much for a doctor.”

“Of course I was worried!” John shot back. “I don’t overly want you to succumb to heat stroke or for something more serious to happen because you didn’t take proper care of yourself.”

He was getting closer. He just needed to say it.

“It didn’t. I’m fine. I’ve gotten heat stroke enough times that I’m used to it.” That gave him pause.

“You do this often?” John asked, suddenly worried. Terrified almost. Serious heat stroke was _not_ a good thing to get repeatedly.

“Not this seriously, no,” Sherlock responded, a little gentler than he normally would. He turned back around and saw just how grim John apparently was, and how worried. Why was he that worried? It didn’t make sense, but not much did to Sherlock. John should have left him and finished off that date yesterday. And yet, he felt like reassuring the doctor. “But yes. I dress in dark clothes, I tend to avoid the sunlight, and I’m incredibly pale. I also happen to be fairly sensitive to extreme humidity. All of which make me prone to various heat illnesses.”

“Then why on earth did you not mention it before we got on the boat?” John rubbed his forehead. He wasn’t awake enough for this kind of ridiculous logic. “Or borrow some trunks and a water bottle from me?”

“I think I’ve imposed on you enough. And I don’t really like to wear trunks. Or swim, if I can avoid it.” The other man turned away almost sharply to avoid his gaze. Was that...embarrassment? Shyness? Sherlock wasn’t shy.

“Well, it’s done now,” John sighed, trying not to over analyze things. “How are you feeling now?”

“Shaky,” Sherlock answered, honestly. There wasn’t a much better descriptor. “I can manage on my own, though, and I think you need to take Jennifer out on her date.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” John admitted, looking Sherlock in the eyes.

Sherlock seemed surprised at that, enough that he didn’t say anything at first. His eyes searched John’s. Silence hung in the air, with an undercurrent of...tension. John wasn’t sure what to say, or do. Why couldn’t he just blurt it all out now and tell Sherlock what he really meant? Because that wasn’t the appropriate way to say anything that John meant this seriously.

But Sherlock looked back, and gripped John strongly by the shoulders. His tone was very level when he spoke.

 “John, listen. Those women are feeling jilted and nervous and like they’ve lost already. I am a threat. A very strange, very real threat, and more so because I’m not like them. You need to reassure them. You need to bring this silly game back into play and apologize. I can take care of myself, but if you don’t take Jennifer on this date and try to bring things back to normal, they will try to smother me in my sleep. Think of their feelings.”

John stood quietly. Sherlock was right. He was being an asshole. He didn’t really regret being an asshole, but he most certainly was one right now. This wasn’t fair on anyone. And that included Sherlock, who was going to end up dealing with more of the backlash than John would.

“Promise me you’ll drink lots of water and keep cool today.” He wasn’t going away without _some_ satisfaction, at least.

“I promise,” Sherlock intoned, letting go and turning away. “Now, you should go take a shower.”

“Yeah, I probably should,” John stretched, and paused, and looked back at the consulting detective. He had an opening. He could say it now.

But Sherlock had gone back to rummaging for a book. And John found himself walking back to his own hotel room, off to take a shower.

 _John Watson, you are such a coward,_ he thought.

~

“None of us know what’s going on,” Cecelia complained. “I’m not used to being left hanging like this, and I don’t like it. John should be more responsible than that. I don’t want to deal with someone who can’t keep it together in an emergency.”

~

“His priorities really are with Sherlock, right now,” Lucy sighed. “I had no idea what was going on when they got back, but I can see why John called the date off. He’s great. And he’d do absolutely the same thing for any one of us.”

She didn’t look as pleased as she should, though.

“Not that I’m happy with him spending all night in Sherlock’s room,” she added, roughly. “That was a little inconsiderate of him. He does still have the rest of us here, and he should think before he does things like that.”

~

After his shower, John conferred with Dave, picked up his invitation and went to talk to the women. He figured he needed to apologize and set things right. He wasn’t expecting to see Sherlock sitting quietly on a chair in the back of the room, but he was kind of glad about it. If he felt well enough to be sociable, that was a good sign.

The women had gathered on the couches and were sitting attentively.

“Ah,” John stammered. Suddenly, he was embarrassed. He really did owe them an explanation. “I guess I need to apologize for cutting our time short yesterday.”

At least a couple faces said, ‘Yes, you really do.’ Ouch.

“I want you all to know, though, that any form of medical emergency is more important than whatever activity we have planned. That goes for everyone.” He felt himself assuming a military stance. He wasn’t going to back down on this. Health versus pleasure? Health wins. “I refuse to put anything above someone’s health. That’s part of being a doctor.”

A few of the girls shifted uncomfortably. Good. If they thought that this production was the most important thing, they _should_ be ashamed.

“But I am sorry for worrying you, and I will make it up to you.” Sherlock had been right after all, it wasn’t fair, and they would eat him alive if he didn’t fix it. “We’re going to start the rose ceremony early tomorrow. That means that if I didn’t get a chance to talk to you on the date, you’ll get some extra time with me before I give out roses. So we all have a level playing field again. Is that alright?”

Cecelia looked a bit miffed, but everyone else nodded in agreement. That was the best acceptance he could hope for. His posture relaxed a bit.

“Anyway, I know it’s a bit belated, but I’ve got an invitation to drop off.” He passed the letter to Jennifer. “I’ll see you in a bit?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “I’ll get ready.”

~

“The invitation actually said ‘Let’s show our love to the gods’,” she said to the camera, smiling. “Looks like we’re going to a temple of some sort. Can’t wait.”

~

 “I can’t believe he told us off like that,” Cecelia whined. “I mean, talk about rubbing salt in the wound. He could have at least explained why he felt the need to sit in Sherlock’s room all night.”

~

Anna sighed heavily. “I wish he’d been sitting in my room. It’s such a sweet gesture. Watching him hover over someone else like that makes my stomach turn. It makes a girl feel a little lonely, when they’re not the one getting attention.”

~

An hour or so later, and John and Jennifer had managed to make their way out to the ruins of a temple. The whole area was filled with white stone, glistening in the sun. John had made sure to pack a ton of extra water and was trying to keep them both in the very sparse shade. Was he maybe worrying too much? Yes. But he was damn well going to worry. He didn’t know if he could take another day like yesterday.

Jennifer didn’t seem to mind. She’d packed up a bunch of water herself and brought a backpack full of things. Resourceful.

“I’m used to being prepared,” Jennifer responded when he asked. “I’ve got a little boy at home and if I don’t have everything ready he’s the one who suffers.”

“You’re a single mother?” John asked cautiously. He wasn’t sure she was okay with the questioning.

“Yeah. He’s three now, and it’s not so bad, but it was a hard couple of years alone,” she looked worried. “I miss him. He’s my everything.”

“Who’s looking after him?” John was quiet. He didn’t think he could understand having to leave something like that behind.

“My parents. They make great babysitters. And Will loves them.” She smiled wistfully. “They’re better for him than his father, that’s for sure.”

“Bad relationship?” Alright, so John was curious. Maybe he shouldn’t be but he was. Everyone likes gossip now and then. And he felt bad for Jennifer. No one should have to go through parenthood alone.

“Nah, just a complete lack of commitment. The man couldn’t keep an appointment if it killed him. My biggest mistake was thinking he’d commit to me if I had a kid with him. He didn’t.”

Yikes. John wasn’t really sure what to say to that. There wasn’t anything anybody could say to make it more palatable.

“Well, it sounds like you’ve gotten good support from other people,” he said, grasping for something. “It’s not easy to raise a kid alone.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “But it was worth it.”

~

Adele was fuming in a corner. She was still in the common room, but God knows why; she hadn’t said anything or looked at anyone the entire time. She apparently wasn’t too happy with the current situation.

Mind you, Sherlock was too busy to really care. He had been swarmed, and he had to fend them off. Somehow, his still-slightly-ill self wasn’t really in the mood for this. He couldn’t imagine why that would be. Karen and Emily had been asking him how he felt, while Laura hovered a little ways off. He had no idea why she seemed so concerned. She could have had an absolute _monopoly_ on the remote.

“You’re sure you feel up to this?” she asked, shifting slightly. “I mean, you should probably still be resting for the day.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock tried to not snap. It still wasn’t pleasantries and sweet talk, though. “I had quite enough rest yesterday.”

“Should we get some water brought up, or something?” Persistent. Sherlock was not amused.

“No. I am fine. Go find one of your awful soaps if you’re so bored.”

Laura huffed for a second and then deflated. “Fine. Just, don’t pass out on us okay?”

“I assure you I won’t.” Sherlock struggled to find his place in the book he had been reading as she left. Moving to her traditional spot on the couch, she started looking for a soap opera in English.

Karen and Emily weren’t so accommodating.

“Oh, stop,” Emily said. “You don’t have to be nasty about it.”

“I’m not being nasty. I’m being direct. Please stop trying to patronize me.” Sherlock was _trying_ to bury himself in a book. Why were people so fucking persistent? He was fine, he had said so a hundred times and he didn’t know what else they wanted from him.

“Leave him alone, Emily,” Karen sighed. “If he’s going to be difficult, he’s probably fine.”

“I _am_ fine.” Sherlock noted. “And trying to read.”

“Maybe you can try and tell us why John spent the night in your room?” Cecelia asked coldly, sidling up to join the conversation. She obviously was trying to pretend she was just gossiping. “What’s going on with _you_ two?”

She winked, but it didn’t balance out the hostility in her body language or the subtle bite in her tone. Someone was jealous. This was the real reason why these girls weren’t going to leave him alone.

“Nothing that I know of,” Sherlock responded sharply. He really was never in the mood for this. “John was apparently worried.”

“Oh really,” Cecelia intoned, flatly. She was still pretending to be his friend. “He certainly went above and beyond what he had to.”

“He sat and slept in a chair.” Seriously, he had. As far as Sherlock was aware John hadn’t budged all night. “It’s nothing seedy, nor is it anything to be worried about. John’s honour is still intact.”

Cecelia frowned, pretenses dropped. “If you say so.”

“I have no idea why any of you are so worried,” he growled. “If you were _that_ worried about John’s possible liaisons, you could have just come in and watched him worry. I, personally, was rather sick and asleep for the most part. Not participating in scandalous affairs.”

That seemed to calm Cecelia down, at least. Everyone else looked a bit chastised as well. 

For fuck’s sake — _the door had been open_. If they wanted to monitor John’s activities, they could have just looked. Sherlock really had no idea what they thought he had been doing.

~

“I hope he’s telling the truth,” Cecelia murmured. “I’m not sure I could forgive John if he betrayed us like that.”

~

“The. Door. Was. Open.” Sherlock growled to the confessional camera. “Nothing happened, and nothing _could_ have happened. I wasn’t exactly healthy or completely coherent, and neither of us bothered to close the door. Insecurity is definitely showing and it is not my responsibility to make them feel better.”

~

Jennifer settled down to a beautiful dinner among the ruins. The sun was setting, and everything looked perfect. John was thrilled at how well the day had gone — touring through the ancient landmarks had been a ton of fun, if mostly uneventful.

Uneventful was good at this point. That meant nothing bad had happened.

They had spent most of the afternoon talking about little Will, and Jennifer’s exes, and a bit about children and families, and that kind of life. It had been nice. Jennifer obviously had a very close family and loved her child more than anything. John could definitely appreciate that. He kind of hoped he could have a family like that someday.

“This is so gorgeous,” Jennifer sighed. “I bet you hear that on every date.”

John laughed. He did hear it often. “Yeah, it’s hard to avoid. Doesn’t make it less beautiful, though.”

“Is all the beauty tiring you out?” she asked with a laugh. “It must be exhausting to have to go on all these dates and travel and keep going all the time.”

“It’s not so bad,” John answered. It really wasn’t. “I’m getting exercise, and I’m surrounded by beautiful women and beautiful scenery. It’s hard to protest that kind of thing.”

“True!” She picked at her food a bit. “I guess it’s not really a hard life.”

“The opposite.” John smiled. She slowly ate a bit of her pasta while John watched. Jennifer was sweet, and pretty, and a good person to talk to. He wasn’t stuck debating this time.

He reached out and grabbed the rose off the table. This was easy.

“Jennifer,” he said quietly. She looked up from her plate, eyes catching on the rose. “I had a great time today.”

“I did, too, John.” She was a lot quieter now.

“Good.” He handed the rose to her, letting her hand brush gently across his as she took it. “Will you accept this rose?”

~

“It really was a good date,” John said. “Much more relaxing than yesterday, which is exactly what I needed. I’m just glad Jennifer enjoyed it too.”

~

“That was awesome.” Jennifer was staring at her rose, softly. “John would make a great dad. I hope he gets a chance to see Will. I think he’d like him.”

~

“Sherlock hasn’t said much,” Adele sighed. “He keeps insisting that there is nothing going on between him and John that we don’t know about. He’s obviously an idiot. There’s something going on between John and _all_ of us. Sherlock is no exception. Spending a night alone together, door open or not, is not okay.”

~

“I don’t care that much,” Amelia complained. “I’m here to win, and Sherlock is just one of the competitors. I can’t see how he’s doing anything worse than Cecelia or Adele. I just wish they’d all stop making such a fuss.”

~

Well, that had been fun. By the time Jennifer had made her way back, slightly dazed from her date, Sherlock was about to explode. Not only had he been half-interrogated about John and himself, and their apparently torrid, sex-filled, love affair, but he also hadn’t been able to do much. He had promised John that he wouldn’t strain himself, and if nothing else, he was a man of his word. But that, honestly, was _boring_.

He didn’t feel that great either. Heat stroke always left him with a general sick feeling, which he couldn’t shake for a few days. Part of the recuperation, he supposed, or part of the fact that it was always hot outside when he had heat stroke and that level of heat and humidity can even dull the effects of air conditioning.

He also couldn’t have nicotine. The elevated heart rate would work very badly with nicotine patches. Not like he hadn’t been cutting down since he’d been here. It was always better to hide an addiction in a group setting. But a cigarette, or a nicotine patch, or _something_ would be great right now. Something to calm his nerves, clear his head, and relax him.

He wasn’t getting that, though. What he was getting was another checkup.

“How’re you holding out, Sherlock?” Jennifer asked after she had settled down a bit. “Are the bitches interrogating you?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock responded. He was getting sick of that question. “And so far all the questions have been idiotic. I slept. John slept. We did not sleep together.”

She smiled. “Good. Keep that up. We shouldn’t be bothering you about being sick.”

Sherlock sighed. They shouldn’t — but they would. He was just glad Jennifer wasn’t frantic, like some of the other girls. It was a nice change from the conspiracy theory.

People thought way too much about sex for his liking.

~

“Sherlock’s a trooper,” Jennifer confessed. “He’s so very stubborn, but it’s good for all of us. Sarcasm is much appreciated in this group.”

~

After they had gone to bed, there was a knock on his door. Sherlock was awake, fortunately, but he didn’t know who was coming to bother him. He just hoped it wasn’t a woman with a knife. Or maybe he _did_ hope it was a woman with a knife. Most of them were quite weak, and that could get interesting quickly.

Pulling the door open slowly revealed John. A fairly antsy John.

“Ah,” the doctor started, shifting from foot to foot, “I just came by to check up on you.”

Oh, not this again.

“As I have told every single person today: I. Am. _Fine_.” Sherlock just wanted to try and sleep. He was feeling a bit dizzy again.

“Well, I figured,” John snapped back, “but I thought it would be a good idea to check.”

“You worry inordinately,” Sherlock retorted. But he let John into the room. “It’s not like I was dying.”

John paused for a moment, hesitating, before closing the door firmly behind him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“I worry because I like you. A lot.” There. It was out there. John had said what he needed to. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, and I want to be able to try to get a bit further with this.” Relief flooded through him, as he finally formed the words.

“With what?” Sherlock was perplexed, John’s relief abruptly turned and ran away. Not quite the reaction John had been going for.

“With...us.” There wasn’t a better way to phrase that. “I’m interested. In you. Romantically. And I want you to be too. Interested in me, I mean.”

Well, that was attention-grabbing. Sherlock looked at him very surprised, but didn’t say anything right away. His brain was having trouble wrapping around this concept. Romantically interested. In him. That was something utterly new and a bit...terrifying? Whatever it was, he could feel his heart begin to pound in his chest. He had determined long ago that relationships were things that happened to other people, not to him. But still. As John stood there nervously holding his gaze, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he had been wrong. If maybe this tangled ball of emotions he’d been feeling in relation to the doctor was something deeper than it seemed. He had kissed him, and Sherlock had never felt that urge when it came to anyone. _That_ he couldn’t easily dismiss. Along with several other pieces of key factors. The evidence seemed to weigh against him.

Well, fuck.

“Is... is that okay?” John ventured after a second.

“Ah, yes.” Sherlock paused for a moment, but continued. “Yes, it is. Why would you feel the need to ask that?” That’s right, cover it up with false confidence, Sherlock.

“You don’t seem interested.” John paused before adding. “In me. Romantically. And you mentioned that this isn’t really your area.”

“It’s not. I’ll say it again.” Sherlock frowned at John’s sad face. “But I’m willing to try with you. You’re not like other people.” He didn’t even know what he was saying, but he was praying it was the right thing for once.

“What do you mean?” John moved over to the chair and sat down heavily. Sherlock took a seat on the bed across from him and curled his legs up.

“I mean this. You don’t play subtle, fucked up mind games. You might be overly cautious about it, but at least you come straight out and tell me.” Sherlock leveled a stare at him that felt like it was searing through John’s marrow. “You’re honest. In every sense of the word. I don’t think you understand how rare of a trait that is.”

“I’m glad you think so.” John wasn’t sure how accurate that assessment was, but the fact that Sherlock thought so held a lot of weight. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“You’re also far too modest, John.” Sherlock sighed. “But I suppose that’s why I like you. Romantically.” That last word felt strange coming from his lips, but he was sure he meant it.

John smiled at that. That was a big relief. Sherlock smiled back, and it felt like they’d both just shooed the elephant out of the room. Finally.

“Now that we’ve gotten the emotions out of the way,” he said, more firmly this time, “can I check your pulse?”

Sherlock sighed like he was being killed and thrust his wrist out for John to feel a pulse.

~

Sherlock could hear it even in his own room. They were practically screaming, after all, and he really should have expected it. John tried to be subtle, but he wasn’t good at it. He might not have thundered over to his door, knocked loudly and yelled, ‘Hello, Sherlock, I’m just going to come in and close the door so no one can see what we’re up to!’ but with a dozen women in the house, and the fact that he had to walk through their living area to get to Sherlock’s door? At least one person had seen him.

And now that that one person or more had had a chance to sleep on the news and spread it to every ear that would listen, all hell was breaking loose. And he had to go and face the horde before they broke down his door.

So much for rest before the ceremony.

The first thing he saw past the opened door was Jennifer lying on the couch, and Adele pacing madly, while hurling insults

“What kind of bastard sneaks in to someone else’s room while he’s got a bunch of loyal people waiting on him? Does he think we’re idiots? Or whores for his amusement or something?” She huffed loudly and spun around, looking Sherlock directly in the eye. It seemed to trip her up for a moment, but only briefly. “You want to tell us what escapades you were up to last night, Sherlock?”

 _Sigh_. Once again, they had returned to questioning his honour.

“If that were any of your business — which it’s not, I may add — I’d tell you he came in to check on my health.” He sauntered over to a chair, acting as confident and annoyed as possible. He hadn’t done anything wrong. “And that’s exactly what happened.”

“For twenty minutes with the door closed?” Adele snapped.

“I didn’t realize I was forbidden to talk to him a bit as well,” Sherlock replied, sitting gracefully, and curling his legs up. “Since he came to visit me and all.”

“You’re being a bit ridiculous,” Jennifer added from the couch. “John’s sweet and honest. He’s not really the kind to have casual affairs during the competition.”

“Sherlock’s not really the ‘casual affair’ type either,” Karen laughed from the doorway. “He barely kisses John in front of us. I doubt they’ve gone horizontal behind doors.”

Adele shook her head violently. “That’s not the point.”

“What _is_ the point?” Jennifer drawled, frowning more now. Sherlock was happy to let the girls fight this one if they wanted to intervene. He didn’t really have the energy to protest.

“He should know better. It’s barely okay that he spent the night with the door open, wandering in and shutting the door isn’t fair to _us_. It’s just decency not to do things like that.”

Sherlock felt his hackles rise, suddenly. John _was_ a decent person. He was. Far more decent than some of these women and quite a bit better than most of them deserved. They didn’t get to talk about John like that.

“He was _trying_ to not upset anyone.” Sherlock heard himself growl, but tried to restrain the anger. It wasn’t working. “He thought that if he slipped in and out unnoticed, maybe he could prevent this kind of drama from happening and save us all a migraine. You are _not_ allowed to yell about him being inconsiderate when he was trying to be more respectful towards us than most of us have been towards him in this issue.”

Adele looked at him, a touch shocked. Actually, everyone was looking at him. Sherlock knew it surprised them. Hell, it kind of surprised _him_. But if there was one thing he wasn’t good at, it was lying to himself. He knew that he liked John. Quite a lot. And he couldn’t bear to hear one of the incredibly few people that he genuinely liked insulted because of him. This was not John’s fault.

Karen smirked knowingly. “Oooo, somebody’s got the love bug.”

Sherlock’s face twitched into something resembling disgust. Her phrasing was terrible. “Or I could simply be telling the truth.”

“It _is_ true,” Emily said, from her corner, eyes closed and headphones on. A few of the other girls jumped. No one had thought she was listening. “John’s been trying his best, and no matter what he does, someone jumps down his throat.”

“You’re saying that I’m overreacting,” Adele monotoned. “No one else is upset about this?”

“Not really, no,” Jennifer replied with an eyeroll. Everyone else simply let the quiet speak for itself.

“Fine. Fine. I’m just a crazy bitch then.” No one contradicted her. “Fuck you too.”

Sherlock and the girls watched as she stomped back to room without so much as a glance. She was _angry_. But Sherlock didn’t think she was the fighting type. In fact, he’d be really surprised if she was. She was probably going to run away from her problems and convince herself that she hadn’t been overreacting. Not that Sherlock cared.

“Alright, then.” Jennifer rolled into a sitting position and grabbed the remote. “Anyone care for a few hours of relaxation before Showtime?”

Sherlock could hear Adele babbling to someone who seemed to care in the other room.  He couldn’t quite make out the other voice, but that was alright. What mattered was that the living room was mostly quiet and he could go back to reading for a while, at least.

He couldn’t appreciate that fact enough. Quiet reading was _amazing_.

~

“Seriously, drama much?” Jennifer sighed at the camera. “You’d think we get enough of that without exploding every single kind gesture John makes into some sort of torrid, behind-the-scenes affair. Yeah, we all want him. He’s amazing. But do we have to do _this_ to the poor guy?”

~

“I’m ready,” Adele said to the camera, looking a little tearstained and worse for wear. “I’ve packed. I’ve thought about it. This is it. I just need to talk to John.”

~

The rose ceremony started out quietly. Sherlock basically stood off to one side and listened to the other women gossip while John started his incredibly long conversations. He needed to have extra time with Adele, Amelia, Andrea, Emily, and Sarah. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he counted. He’d had quite enough alone time with John this weekend. Any more might get him strangled in the dead of night.

“I’m excited,” Sarah said with a laugh. “I miss John when I don’t get to talk to him.”

“We all do,” Lucy sighed. She had no right to complain. “It’s so hard to get by without him. I guess Sherlock was the lucky one this week.”

“Since I was mostly sick and asleep, I’m not sure that counts as lucky,” he returned, trying not to get defensive. It was starting to become a reflex.

“You got nursed back to health by the man of your dreams,” Lucy said with a giggle. “Don’t worry so much about it. We’re not going to begrudge you your extra John time.”

He was very unsure of that statement. He didn’t trust Lucy as far as he could throw her.

Sherlock watched as John sidled up to them and placed a hand on Sarah’s arm. “May I?”

“Of course,” she said, her smile growing across her face. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

John smiled back, but also glanced briefly at Sherlock. Just for John, Sherlock managed a nod and a weak smile. Somehow he suspected that this would be a long night for both of them.

~

“I really have missed him,” Sarah sighed. “John’s sweet, and it’s been awkward trying not to think about him and Sherlock. He’s kind of been flaunting it. Not on purpose I’m sure, but nonetheless. It’s hard to avoid. And hard not to think about.”

~

By the time Adele’s conversation had started, John was getting tired. The longer conversations — combined with a few nights of less than amazing sleep — was wearing him out. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up appearances.

“Look, John,” Adele said as she took her seat, “I’m going to make this quick, but we need to talk.”

“About what?” John asked, curious. He wasn’t used to such a serious tone from her. Something was wrong, and he hadn’t seen it coming.

“I don’t feel comfortable here anymore.” She shushed him when he tried to ask why. “Between a few fights with the girls, and the fiasco with you and Sherlock, and our dates in general, I’ve just hit the end of my rope.”

“I’m sorry,” John said, still confused. If there was something he could do, he wanted to fix it. But he wasn’t sure what she wanted him to say to that. “What can I do to help?”

“Nothing,” she sighed, pushing her hair back. “Look, it’s not your fault. I just don’t feel like we’re compatible enough for me to go through all this. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“What?” John asked. Suddenly he felt very awake. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah. I think it’s for the best.” She shrugged and went to stand up. John stood up with her, reeling a bit. They hadn’t been amazing close, but he hadn’t expected her to just walk away.

“Alright, so, you’re leaving right now?”

“Yeah, I’m packed, and I’m going.” She didn’t look repentant.

“Oh. Well.” John fumbled with his surprise. “Ah, goodbye, then.”

That was lame, and he knew it. But what else could he say? ‘I’m so sorry that we didn’t work out as a couple, even though odds were strongly against us and I didn’t like you as much as some of the other girls and one guy’? Yeah, that was super comforting. Adele smiled anyway.

“Goodbye, John. It was nice to meet you.”

He gave her a hug, and she left.

~

“Adele just _left_ ,” Anna said, eyes wide, obviously confused. “She just walked in, said goodbye, and picked up her things. I’m not even sure what happened.”

~

“It wasn’t John; it was her choice. That’s what’s getting to all of us,” Laura said in shock. “It’s been a pretty crazy week. And now this on top of everything? I don’t think we know what to think.”

~

“It was probably for the best,” John said with a sigh. “I’m shocked. I didn’t see it coming at all, but I can’t blame her for leaving. She knows what’s best for her, and I trust her to act on it. I just wish she would’ve talked to me before things got to this point.”

~

John had somehow kept going through conversations despite the added piece of drama. He mostly was fending off questions about Adele. Apparently she had made a splash by walking out. Now he had to confirm to everyone that he didn’t tell her to leave. Because his ego needed to be bruised a bit more. Apparently he was John Watson, cold and callous.

Bringing Sherlock out for a conversation was relieving.

“You’re not going to ask me about Adele too, are you?” John asked with a laugh as both of them settled down on the couch.

“No. She’s been sitting aloof for a few days. Judging by her fight with Laura, and the fact that she reacted so badly to you kissing me, not to mention her outburst about your visit last night, I’m going to say she was pretty insecure already.” Sherlock was noting things calmly, comfortably brushing against John’s side. Sitting just a little close. Just how John liked it. “She’s not very confrontational, either. Rather than deal with the fact that she doesn’t like you kissing boys, she found it easier to leave. Not your fault at all.”

“Well, I’m glad to have that reassurance, at least.” John leaned his head back.

“You shouldn’t need it. You did nothing wrong.” Sherlock gave him a scrutinizing glance, before adding, “And you should probably go to the rose ceremony now if you’re that close to exhaustion.”

“I’m not that tired.” John tried to wave him off.

“You’re eyes have dark circles under them, you’re acting unnecessarily self-conscious, and you keep leaning your head back and closing your eyes.” Sherlock frowned and brushed a hand over his forehead. John basked in the light touch. “You’re also fairly warm. I’m the last conversation tonight, and I certainly don’t need more reassuring.”

Sherlock stood up and grabbed John’s arm. Yanking him to a standing position, he straightened John out. Somehow, John couldn’t feel more grateful. Someone was taking care of _him_ for once. Worrying about him. Noticing when he was hitting breaking point. It felt incredibly good.

Knowing that it was Sherlock who was worried about him felt even better.

“Let’s go, John,” Sherlock said, calmly. John grabbed his arm before he could go anywhere. The detective came to an abrupt stop and turn to look at him.

“What?” Sherlock asked calmly. John just leaned in and kissed him. Hard. Their lips mashed together, and Sherlock felt himself return the affection for a brief moment before John pulled away.

 “I just suggested that you not fall asleep before rose ceremony,” Sherlock said with a slight smile when they broke apart. “I don’t think that much gratitude was necessary.”

“This is a thing, now,” John said firmly, also smiling. “We both like each other, and it doesn’t make sense to keep dancing around the issue. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“No,” Sherlock answered. “My mind doesn’t change often.”

“Good.” John turned and headed out. “Let’s go then.”

A wave of relief went through John as they walked. This was a thing and they both wanted it. And wanting another man did not make him gay. Just gay for Sherlock. He could live with that. He could live with someone who worried about him and who he worries about. They could date, without problems. He could do this.

He sensed his gay crisis coming to an end and wondered vaguely if Harry felt this relieved when she came out. It wasn’t the same thing at all, but it felt similar to John.

Now he just had the fact that he was still dating far too many people at once to deal with.

~

“Woah, that was short,” Cecelia crowed. “I wonder if there’s trouble in paradise? Sherlock had the shortest conversation of all of us. And I think that includes Adele!”

~

Dave had sidled up beside John almost instantly. He looked excited, but only falsely so. Ever the persona. There was a pile of roses beside the two of them.

“Ladies and gent,” Dave calmly announced. “As you all know, it was a very eventful week this week. With everything that’s been going on, it’s no surprise that this evening will be exciting as well. You may have heard that Adele has left on her own. That leaves eleven of you.

“Lucy, Jennifer, you have roses already. That means you’re safe. As for the rest of you: there are eight roses on this tray. That means one of you will be going home.

“John, when you’re ready.”

The girls shifted nervously as John stepped up to the tray. Dave had vanished by the time John lifted the first rose.

“Sherlock,” he called without hesitation. Sherlock came down and collected his prize, stopping briefly to hug John. “Sherlock, will you accept this rose?”

“No, John, how could you,” Sherlock responded with deadpan sarcasm. “Of course, I’m accepting the rose.”

John chuckled as Sherlock walked back to his spot and winked. Someone was feeling good.

“Sarah,” he called next. He knew who he wanted to keep. Sarah was definitely at the top of that list.

After Sarah had accepted hers, John went through the names quickly. Karen, Laura, Anna, Amelia, Andrea. And Emily.

Cecelia looked shell-shocked.

~

“I can’t believe he would do that to me,” she cried at the camera. “I want a chance to redeem myself, or to show him how much I love him. I just want him to want me. I just want him to love me.”

She sobbed softly.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get over him.”

~

John sighed heavily as he sunk into bed. He just wanted to sleep. Sherlock was fine, Sherlock liked him, Sarah was still fond of him, and his number of dates was slowly going down. That was relieving right? Everything was going his way.

Adele was gone. That had still surprised him. But it was okay. He had enough women, and he had enough problems. If she didn’t want to be there, he was okay with that.

Especially since Sherlock had assured him that it wasn’t his fault. That was always a helpful thing to know. John didn’t really want to complicate matters further by having to inspect his every move for a while. He was doing alright. This whole thing was alright.

And he’d gotten a rather encouraging letter from Geoff and Paul, which was even better. Apparently his other letter had gotten through — he must have been vague enough to get approval. Either that or the producers didn’t consider two boys on the front line as threats to their ratings.

They hadn’t been given many details, but Geoff had been exuberant anyways — over the top and encouraging about everything. Paul had told him to be careful. Apparently Paul thought his heart was going to break in two if the wrong girl rejected him. John hoped he was made of sturdier stuff than that.

But honestly, he wasn’t sure.

He read up on the gossip from his corps and folded the letter back up. He could put it in his suitcase and keep it with him. It was nice to know there were a couple people rooting for him. At the very least he had someone to write to.

Maybe he could clear his thoughts with another letter?

John somehow doubted it, but he started to write one anyway.


	6. Episode Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Six - Prague, Czech Republic

Episode Six

 

“We can’t let you send this,” Steve said, very calmly. They had landed in Prague two hours ago, and John was still feeling kind of sick. The plane had been incredibly over-warm and combined with the change in atmosphere pressure? He was pretty sure that everyone else was nauseous too.

And now the letter he wrote was handed back to him, without ceremony. Unsent.

“Why not?” John asked, a bit frank because of the nausea. “You let me send the last one.”

“The last one was sent early enough that it didn’t contain anything that would be considered a major development,” Steve said monotonously. He obviously had this piece memorized. “We can’t have you leaking important developments, though. It would negatively affect our ratings.”

“Fine,” John said. He wasn’t going to win this fight. “Can I send any letter?”

“We’d rather you don’t.”

“Alright.”

John watched Steve leave, then went to sleep off his disappointment. He really could’ve used another letter from Paul and Geoff. Or any communication with the outside world period. And, really, he just felt like crap and wasn’t too happy about being trapped into silence.

But what was he supposed to do about it? Nothing. He was stuck, and he knew it.

All he could do was fill out his date cards and hope that no one particularly hated him for the fact that Sherlock was getting the first one-on-one.

Yes, he had decided. No, he didn’t want to rethink that.

He figured there might be a bit of an uproar coming, since there had been so much tension surrounding Sherlock when he was sick, but he wasn’t about to care. Sherlock deserved something good to make up for the rather crappy week he had had last time. And maybe in appreciation for the fact that Sherlock had been the only person in the last rose ceremony to say something when he got to the point of exhaustion.

Sometimes when John was with Sherlock it felt like he was being rescued. From himself, from societal perceptions, from things he thought he was responsible for. But just being told he looked tired, or that he really didn’t have to worry so much, or that his whole history could be read between his haircut and his cane just felt like someone saving him from drowning. A breath of fresh air, if you would. Except this breath was the only thing between him and being lost, bored, half-dead, and miserable. This was the kind of air that he needed to keep going.

And that was Sherlock. Sherlock, and probably a form of PTSD from the war. But nonetheless Sherlock made civilian life look manageable again.

Or rather, exciting.

Civilian life with Sarah looked manageable and even enjoyable. Civilian life with Karen looked manageable and possibly dramatic. Civilian life with Laura looked manageable and a little bit quirky. And there were others. But Sherlock made the act of living exciting. Even when that act was sitting in bed growling at him about heat stroke. Or sipping tea in a gaggle of chatter. Or even going to bed early. John couldn’t place a finger on why, but that mundane time with Sherlock _meant_ something. And not just a ‘My First Man-Crush’ something.

It was just enough to make John a bit apathetic to the consequences. Sherlock had the next date and John was excited.

Now, he just had to get rid of his nauseous feeling before tomorrow.

~

It really had been a crappy flight. Lucy had thrown up on landing, and a few of the women had slept for a few hours after they got to the hotel.  Sherlock had spent the afternoon in his room, letting the sickness pass. Flying was unpleasant enough, but the heat of the cabin and changing pressure had basically shredded his nerves. He’d spent a long time learning how to control any anxiety about being in a tin can hurtling through air, piloted by someone who may be smart or may yell ‘Git rrrrr done!’ before takeoff, but there were times when keeping all that in check took more effort. The anxiety levels in a malfunctioning plane were sky high — no pun intended — and Sherlock’s natural mistrust of anything that involved his life being out of his sphere of control. However, he had recovered from the sickness quickly enough, which was more than many of the women could say. Even when they gathered for the invitation, Lucy still looked green around the edges.

Dave was right on schedule. He slid into the room, invitation in hand, looking like he hadn’t also been trapped on a miserable plane for a few hours, being cooked like a goose.

“Hello, everyone,” he said with a smile. He was back in his suit and tie, casual clothes gone. “We’ve made it to lovely Prague. Are you all ready for the next invitation?”

“Yes,” they said in tandem. As expected. Though Sherlock noted that the enthusiasm in the room was somewhat lacking.

“Good. I’ll leave this with you, then,” Dave said happily. He dropped the invitation on the coffee table with a small flourish and left quickly. From how short he had been, Sherlock figured that he really wasn’t feeling as fantastic as he was pretending.

Lucy didn’t dive forward for once, finally giving one of the other girls a chance. She probably couldn’t have stomached a date right now, anyway. Instead, Emily reached out calmly and opened the envelope.

“Sherlock,” she read with a raised eyebrow, “Let’s take a walk through the garden.”

 Another date so soon? Interesting. John was certainly pushing his luck with the women. Also, he couldn’t quite understand why. He liked John, but hadn’t they spent enough time together last week? Sherlock guessed being tended to whilst attempting not to vomit wouldn’t exactly qualify as quality time, but still. He would probably consider almost seeing him vomit as somewhat of a turn off. Either John really liked him or was incredibly stubborn. Evidence pointed to both, but it was hard for a particularly aloof consulting detective to reconcile the fact that _anyone_ could have that much genuine affection for him. Much less someone he liked himself.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” Sarah said with a soft laugh. She didn’t look entirely cheerful. Sherlock could blame it on the flight, but he knew better. “Suppose we should have, though.”

“Sherlock’s a favourite,” Jennifer said with a wink. She seemed happy for him, which was strange. He wasn’t sure he fully trusted her anymore. “He should worry about the competition getting angry.”

On that note, he also made a mental reminder to lock his door tonight. A few of the women had giggled, but Lucy looked like she would stab him in his sleep.

~

“I cannot _believe_ John chose him to get a second one-on-one,” Lucy fumed, looking positively livid. “He has a few girls who haven’t even gotten a one-on-one yet, and they’re all incredibly nice. Emily? She’s sweet. Why not take her?”

She paused and then mimed fainting.

“But, oh no! Sherlock got _heat stroke_ , the poor baby. John has to coddle him now because he’s such a delicate flower!”

~

“I was surprised,” Sarah whispered, confidentially. “But I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Sherlock did have a really bad date last time — it’s no surprise that John wants to make up for it. Regardless of what I think of Sherlock, _John_ is a good man. I wouldn’t expect anything less from him.”

~

The night actually had passed surprisingly quickly. Almost everyone had retired for the evening right after the invitation was read. No fussing when they all needed to sleep off the last bit of a really, really bad day of travelling. Lucy had been far too sick to stab him, no matter how ill-wishing she had been. Pity. So Sherlock had no real choice but to actually sleep and put whatever blunt instruments he may have arranged carefully by the bed, just in case, away.

 When he woke up from his rather sporadic sleep, he was utterly terrified. It was beginning to sink in that this was really happening. He had given up on ever even bothering to _try_ for a relationship years ago. Seriously, no one likes a fucking psychopath, except for maybe other psychopaths or sociopaths. Neither of which was John. By all accounts, Sherlock was considered a bad person and, based on what people had told him and accused him of, he had no choice but to agree. He was cold, callous, hated people, and had no interest in social games or pretending to be something he wasn’t. The only people who remained around him where those he chose to keep around by manipulation or direct orchestration of façades and personality traits that weren’t his. Fuck, he didn’t really have any _friends_ nor did he want any. He was happy to keep a professional distance and maintain that people were nothing more than annoying parts of his existence that he observed and occasionally profited from. Yes, he liked distance. No one getting close, no one touching him, nothing. That wasn’t exactly part of any romantic relationship he could think of.

And now he was...in one? Sort of beginning one? Competing for one? He wasn’t even sure. But he was somehow, in some way, emotionally attached to John Watson. That translated to a kind of expected and salient vulnerability. It was terrifying to think of anyone getting beyond the persona he carefully constructed for the benefit of others. No one liked being disillusioned, and he guessed that was why — when he started to let down any kind of barrier between his sense of what was socially acceptable and his real personality — people ran for their pitchforks. Sherlock knew why for the most part. But maybe with John it would be different. Possibly. Last week, when he was in the throes of heat stroke, he hadn’t really been able to keep up any façade. He realized that he probably had been mean, belligerent, and, well, himself. John hadn’t run away from that?

This was all fucking confusing.

And he thought he liked it.

It hadn’t been hard to determine that he liked John a lot, even though he wasn’t sure how far that went. But he liked it when John cared for him. He liked that John would fret when everyone else would tell him to shut up and piss off. And he liked kissing John. And all of that added together to create the fact that he was _terrified_ of fucking this up. He wanted to keep this going for as long as possible. Whatever _this_ was. It also terrified him that he had no idea how to proceed. What to do. What was expected. Fuck, he’d barely hugged anyone, let alone kissed, or...whatever else. Sherlock was not going to start further down this train of thought. In any case he was determined that he’d try not to disappoint.

At least, until John eventually left him. It was bound to happen — no one stayed with him long. It was just in his nature. He had been okay with that until now.

And it bothered him that he suddenly wasn’t.

~

John was waiting for him outside Saint Vitus Cathedral in Prague Castle. His smile grew as he saw the limo drive up — Sherlock was coming. He felt a lot closer to the other man after last week’s heat stroke, somehow more familiar...though that wasn’t quite the right word. Sherlock was a cranky patient. And that was endearing. And not flattering at all. And that’s what made it so perfect. Sherlock was human, with all the flaws that came with that. And it was warming John’s heart.

Sherlock had seen a glance of the gardens they were supposed to be walking in, but the driver hadn’t stopped. Instead, he crawled out of the car in front of an imposing gothic structure, John smiling obliviously in front of it.

Sherlock just hoped he could get through this date without making John hate him. He’d decided that if this was to go further it was time to let go of the restraint he usually had, in regards to the harder edges of his personality. If John didn’t like it, he wouldn’t be surprised. And then they could get the rejections over with now instead of having to wait another week.

“How’re you feeling?” John asked as he arrived, genuinely concerned. Sherlock looked a bit pale, but when John checked his pulse he was cool to the touch and his heartbeat was steady. “Better?”

“I’m feeling fine at the moment, but I must admit I fear for my health,” Sherlock intoned as he let the doctor lightly grab his wrist; his heart seemed to trill with that little bit of contact which was a bit embarrassing. Might as well start with the exceedingly dry sense of humour. “It seems the last few times you’ve taken me for a date, I’ve ended up bleeding or half-dead. You’re sure you’re not out to kill me?”

John laughed, much to Sherlock’s relief. It was going well, right?

“I hope you make it through this one without anything terrible happening,” John said with a smile. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand, enjoying the touch, and started leading him inside. “But now that I’ve said that, we’re jinxed.”

For the first time, Sherlock paid attention to how his hand felt. It was exceedingly warm and gentle despite his obviously strong grip. John’s skin was rough, but he liked it. He liked the sense of texture against his palm. He probably spent far too long contemplating that before he answered.

“I, for one, don’t plan to let my imagination become a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Sherlock responded, happily noting John’s absent limp. “Jinxing is only a superstition.”

“All the better for the both of us.” John turned to grin up at him, still holding his hand. Hand holding felt right, right now. Comfortable and safe. “I hope this is more enjoyable than the boat.”

“It will be.” Sherlock had no doubt of that. “I was told there would be gardens, but cathedrals are much more to my liking.”

“Ah, yeah,” John said with a blush. “I couldn’t think of anything else to write. The producers wanted me to say ‘Let’s take a look at the crown jewels’ but...”

Sherlock had burst into laughter, and John couldn’t help but join in. He hadn’t seen Sherlock laugh so genuinely, yet, or with such childish enthusiasm, and it was catching. In a few minutes they had both collapsed against each other, clutching their stomachs by the time they had recovered some dignity, they were panting a bit, big smiles on their faces. His whole face lit up with a life that existed just underneath the calm, bordering-on-coldness that Sherlock normally displayed. John couldn’t believe that no one else could seem to see that. It drew him in, and made him want more. It made him want to touch him, and kiss him, and just _live_ with him.

“I think the girls would have killed you if I’d sent that,” John tried to finish, still leaning heavily on Sherlock. Sherlock chuckled.

“I can’t help but agree.”

~

“Lucy, stop freaking out,” Karen said with a sigh from her spot on the couch. “It’s just a date. You don’t freak out this badly when anyone else gets one.”

“No one else gets the kind of treatment Sherlock does,” Lucy growled, pacing slowly across the room.  “John acts like _he’s_ somehow more special than you or me. It’s not fair.”

“John has been perfectly fair,” Karen grumbled. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“I’m not the only one!”

“Well, no, but why would you want to be that kind of bitch?”

Lucy glared, sharp and angry, but didn’t respond. Somewhere between clawing Karen’s eyes out and storming off in a fit she had lost sense of what she wanted to do. She was just angry.

“Look, even if he was treating anyone unfairly — which I don’t think he is — there is _nothing_ we can do about it. Unless you want to leave.” Karen sighed as she watched Lucy’s glare spread into a frown.

“I can’t complain without accusations?” Lucy growled, suddenly changing gears. “I’m not leaving.”

“I swear to God, I am going to get Emily to start meditation classes.” Karen flicked the telly off and stood up. That was quite enough idiocy for one day. She could only take so much. “If we don’t all calm down, I am going to choke someone.”

~

Meandering through the halls of Prague castle was amazing. The architecture was superb, the hallways gorgeous. And, a hundred times more interestingly, there were tons of tourists. Thank Christ. Sherlock got to exercise some of his atrophying brain cells as he examined people out of the corner of his eye. The producers had decided that the place was big enough for everyone, so Sherlock and John were treated to a first class show of how stupid people often were when placed outside of their familiar environment.

Oh, yes, tourists were hilarious.

“I love this kind of detail work,” John was saying as a couple of first-class idiots butted in. They had been looking at some gothic carvings on a pillar, when the very loud couple moved in to their left. John immediately went quiet, obviously feeling intruded on.

“I just think, like, that the whole structure is, like, really well made,” the blonde woman was saying, her thigh brushing against her male companion’s. He saw a hundred little things in that one movement, and her vocabulary wasn’t helping the impression. “It’s just such a magnificent, like, work of art. Fauvian architecture is so amazing!”

Her assumption that she had any idea about architecture was silly at best. But _Fauvian_? As in the art movement headed by Matisse at the beginning of the 20 th century, Fauvian? The one that also wasn’t remotely a style of architecture? No, Sherlock decided he could not pass up this opportunity.

Besides, they had interrupted John and his date. They had this coming.

“Like, really, like,” Sherlock said to John, loudly. He immediately got a _look_ from the woman. “I mean it’s, like, so perfect. Like.” That would either get rid of her, or mortify her enough to shut her up. Either way it was extremely satisfying as he watched the woman’s face contort into something between disgust and embarrassment.

John looked mildly mortified. Making fun of people to their faces wasn’t a normal person’s idea of fun was it? But, alas, it was Sherlock’s. Especially in this kind of situation. He could almost guarantee that he would never see either of them again. And if he did? He didn’t care. Part of the personality. John either liked it or he didn’t. And once again Sherlock found himself unprecedentedly nervous.

The woman had switched her interjections to ‘I mean’, which was an equally terrible verbal stutter in Sherlock’s opinion. However, she had also started to drag her unwilling companion away from them. At least the mocking had had the desired effect.

“Sherlock.” John elbowed him, suppressing a smile that was ashamed of itself. He didn’t go anywhere with that, though.

“Oh, you thought it too,” Sherlock tossed out. He’d already screwed up. Might as well roll with the punch. After all it wasn’t like he didn’t annoy people constantly. He just didn’t usually annoy John. “And besides — she stopped?”

John laughed softly at that, not quite unwillingly, and the tension bled out of the air. Sherlock didn’t realize how much relief it would give him to hear that little laugh. He was so incredibly _relieved._

“True. She did stop.” John was smiling. That was good. He wasn’t angry and that’s all Sherlock needed. “It’s still not appropriate, though.”

“Neither was she,” Sherlock retorted. “There’s a whole castle to wander through, why did they have to choose right beside us?” It was true. And that was aggravating for more people than just him. Even though he hadn’t exactly planned on being this...well, he guessed people would refer to it as ‘mean’ and perhaps ‘obnoxious’, it was probably better this way.  Tiptoeing around social convention and pretending to be polite and not be bothered by events that clearly would bother everyone but a corpse was not who he was. Sherlock simply didn’t have time to put up with blatant stupidity, and if John didn’t like that they had reached an impasse.

“And so you need to _make_ them leave?” John said with a mixed frown. It was more of a grimace really; he hadn’t quite finished with his smile. Sherlock wasn’t really rude and wasn’t really unfair, just socially inappropriate. Which felt very strange, because John couldn’t quite suppress his shocked and illicit glee.

“You thought it was annoying too. And you laughed.” Come on. John was so honest, and this should be no exception. He was certain he had been annoyed, and despite any faces after the fact, he had been amused. “Besides, even her ‘friend’ didn’t like her much. She was trying far too hard for someone who wasn’t interested.”

“And how do you know that?” John shot, still a bit incredulous.

“Body language, mostly. She kept twirling her hair and brushing against his thigh, and he didn’t reciprocate, or even look at her. He even moved away when she tried to take his hand.” Sherlock shrugged. It had been really obvious. He almost felt bad for the guy, if he was indeed capable of feeling bad for anyone, that is.

“You see all that in someone else,” John said with a laugh, “but you don’t see it at all when it’s directed at you, do you?”

Sherlock could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. His damn fair complexion would be the death of him.

“It’s never that obvious,” Sherlock muttered, uncomfortable. Despite it, curiosity prevailed. As embarrassing as it was, he had to know. It was important to keep tabs on your personal handicaps. “Is it?”

 He said it quietly. If John didn’t answer, he could maintain the plausible deniability of never having asked anything at all.

“Yes,” John responded, bluntly. A shot to the heart, metaphorically — a poke to the ribs, literally. “I’m pretty sure Amanda was definitely that obvious.”

“I don’t know, then.” He didn’t. It was a horrifying blind spot that he wanted desperately to correct. So far, he had been unsuccessful. Molly had been obvious — and pathetic. ‘Refreshing’ your lipstick? Really? Anyway, she didn’t make much of a challenge, and he had partially orchestrated that to use it to his advantage. Aside from that, he probably still wouldn’t know that John liked him if not for their direct conversations on the matter.

John smiled sweetly and wrapped an arm around his waist. And everything seemed to fit in place, like they’d always been close. “It’s alright, Sherlock. Even you have to have flaws.”

Oh, but how he wished he didn’t.

~

“I admit I was a little shocked by the whole thing,” John said to a camera later even though he wasn’t really sure that was the right phrase for it. The only thing that really surprised him was the fact that he assumed he was a good person and good people probably shouldn’t have found that so damn funny. “But it’s part of who he is. It’s part of his honesty. And he was right — she was annoying. If his worst flaw is that he is obvious about what he dislikes? I think I can live with that.”

~

Sarah sighed internally. She really didn’t want to join that conversation. But she really did. Lucy and Anna and Amelia were bitching, and she _wanted_ that catharsis too. But she didn’t want to be that kind of a bitch. As Karen would say.

“Seriously, though. It’s like they’re already in love,” Lucy said with a dramatic sigh, throwing herself back against the couch. “I really wish John would be a little less exclusive.”

Sarah tuned her out again. John _was_ spending a lot of time with Sherlock. It felt uneven. And, yes, that was completely selfish and unfair. But she still felt that way. It was hard not to in this kind of situation. She wanted John all to herself. Instead, she was sharing him with far too many other women. And a man who was getting a lot of attention lately.

“…It’s still hard,” Anna said quietly. “I’m not homophobic or anything, but it’s just…unusual. I’m not going to get used to him dating a guy at the same time as he dates me.”

Sarah internally agreed. Not quite to the same extent, obviously. She was okay with them going out together and having dates and doing the same things that happened on other dates. But seeing John kiss Sherlock tied her stomach in knots.

And part of her worried that it was hubris. Like some part of her felt that she’d already gained John’s trust above the other girls. Like she’d partially won already, and that’s why their kisses with John didn’t hurt. Part of her also worried that it was a weird form of latent homophobia. She’d never had a problem treating and caring for homosexual patients. Or any other kind of patient. But all of a sudden she had a problem with one gay man.

But if she sat and thought about it? It was just that it was Sherlock. Something about the man rubbed her the wrong way. Not quite right. She didn’t really like him, though she couldn’t say why or even that she really _didn’t_ like him. He was quiet and civil enough to the other women. But he always seemed somewhat cold.

She could probably handle losing to one of the women. But to Sherlock?

She didn’t know.

~

Sherlock had been very, _very_ hesitant about doing this. But John had started the last kiss, and he felt like it was probably his turn. Sadly, he had to admit that he was just assuming this was how things went, even though he doubted that normal people thought of kissing as a turn-based ritual. It was killing him that he was this incredibly nervous. He hadn’t really expected that, but he couldn’t really help it. The whole thing was just so alien, and he had no idea if what he was doing was right, or proper, or whatever way people phrased it. However, he wanted to make sure things kept developing, so he needed to straighten the knots out of his stomach and just fucking do it already before John noticed. They had been talking, and enjoying, and John had even forgiven him for his overt and purposeful social...misstep earlier. There was no reason for him to be so _scared_.

But he’d been fussing for an hour, and he was only now getting the courage to actually try something. They were alone now. His shoulder brushed John’s.

John had noticed some kind of growing nervousness with Sherlock in the last while as the detective seemed to almost touch him then pull back. Almost take his hand, then end up just brushing their fingers together. John really didn’t understand why he was hesitating. Hadn’t they had this conversation? Sherlock knew he liked him. He knew he liked him romantically. It was maddeningly frustrating to have him dance around it. More so because John wanted to be kissed by Sherlock. He found that after he said what he was feeling aloud a few days ago, those feelings had done nothing but slowly intensify to the extent that he threw caution to the wind and actually gave Sherlock a second one-on-one, and to hell what the other women thought. That was kind of...well, frightening for him.

He was beginning to feel very strongly on the issue. Somehow, he had actually managed to develop something very real. And he’d never had this kind of relationship with a man. Or maybe even a woman. He wasn’t sure, which was scary in and of itself. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore, and that was overwhelming a lot of his thoughts. There was no way to know what to think. Maybe, for once, he just wanted to not have to think.

So, throwing caution to the wind? Sounded like a plan. Besides, Sherlock was being so fidgety, which was driving him insane. What really mattered now was that he felt like he was suddenly in college all over again.

The women had no problem throwing themselves at him, but Sherlock was reserved to the point that — if it were anyone else — he’d accuse him of being ridiculously coy. What he suspected, but would never have the nerve to ask directly about, was a complete and utter lack of experience. John quickly had to bury that possibility before he started getting nervous too.  The point in all this? He craved some physical contact, and maybe that would make Sherlock stop being awkward and see what the hell he was trying to tell him.

The conversation paused. The room was empty. Sherlock stole a quick glance around the empty hall, just to be sure. He really didn’t have any excuses left and he _did_ want to. Now or never.

“John?” He murmured. When the doctor turned to look at him, he leaned in and pressed their lips together. Briefly, but not too briefly, with a very calculated pressure. He didn’t want to be too forceful.

But, when Sherlock kissed him, John surged back against him, pressing deeply, and Sherlock found himself parting his lips and letting John’s tongue slip in to his mouth. Shockingly, it actually felt good, and all at once he could finally understand why people did this. The heat of John’s body, the feel of his hands on him, the pure closeness of someone he had affection for. It all made his head swim with a surge of emotions. He could feel his skin begin to become more sensitive, feeling, clamouring for every bit of contact, every bit of pressure.  Sherlock didn’t know what to do with it all but he kissed back, trying to mimic John’s actions, with hands scrabbling for purchase on John’s coat, a feeling of relief as his back thudded against a wall. Support. Why was he shaking? Why was he breathing heavily? Impulsively he wrapped his hands around John’s waist, as John’s hand slid under the edge of his shirt, over his stomach. Across his side, to settle in the small of his back. The roughness of his palm travelling along his bare skin. The sensation made him shudder with how purely _good_ it felt.

John was almost basking the feeling of skin on skin and a warm body beneath him. He wanted this. By the little gasps and movements Sherlock was making, they both did, and it was _fantastic_. Just a little bit of friction between John’s finger tips and Sherlock’s abdomen, and John knew he was going faster than he should be. Going beyond the point he wanted to make. But he was going to enjoy what little physical contact he got with Sherlock.

And damn if they weren’t both getting flushed. Sherlock noted John’s breathing had also changed, to the extent that they were both gasping for air. John was also gripping him tightly at the back of his neck pressing him closer, as if he’d never let go. God, he hoped it felt this good for John, too. He was beginning to struggle not to make embarrassing noises — like gasps. A few more seconds and he might have to hope that the editing team was kind as he felt blood rushing to places that were _definitely_ not his face.

John pulled away, though, obviously flustered himself. They both stood staring into each other’s eyes, breathing heavily, just a little too close. John’s nose rested briefly against his, eyes closing for a second before fluttering open again. That little gesture brought a smile to both their lips and Sherlock could feel his breath evening out again.

It took a moment before John recovered himself enough to set himself to rights. Leaning on the wall beside Sherlock, he still felt a little heady as he started fussing with his clothes. Something small to sort himself out, calm him down. It helped.

 Sherlock watched as the doctor smoothed his shirt and straightened his collar as well as his jacket. It was soothing, though he was still left questioning what had just happened.

“Ah, sorry,” John murmured, gazing back at him, now looking embarrassed. His hand had settled again against Sherlock’s. “I guess I was a bit excited.”

“Do you regret it?” Sherlock asked softly, straightening himself out, knowing he must look like more than a bit of a debauched mess, currently.  He quickly did up a shirt button that had popped open, and tried to put his crumpled self back together, running a hand through his hair and pulling his shirt down.

“No! No, not at all.”

“Then don’t be sorry.” Sherlock really hoped that John really didn’t regret that, since he had enjoyed it far more than he even thought possible.

Once they had gathered themselves, John reached down and slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist again, getting comfortable with the closeness.  Sherlock settled with his shoulder against John, the other man’s head tilting the rest against his.

“It’s just...You’ve never started anything,” John said quietly. He seemed to be thinking deeply. “Some of the girls basically throw themselves on me, but you barely touch me.”

“Well,” Sherlock said with a sigh, “I’m not very good with physical contact.”

“I noticed,” John laughed. He was smiling again. “I like it, though. I don’t mind going slowly.”

“I think we’ve just passed the point of ‘going slowly’, John.” He was pretty sure that point had disappeared very, very far out of view.

“I guess we have.”

Neither of them were sure what that would now entail.

~

“That was amazing,” John reminisced quietly. “It’s unusual for him to be so physical and I couldn’t help but take advantage of the moment. I think Sherlock enjoyed it too, which is the best part. I’m starting to finally feel like we’re building a relationship.”

~

Sarah’s head was lolling into her book. It had been a long day. Everyone was quiet, everyone was tired, everyone was annoyed. She hadn’t wanted to be reading for quite so long and she was tired of it. But Laura had commandeered the telly, and was watching her terrible soap operas, and pretty much everyone else was just avoiding each other...and Lucy, who had been fuming for most of the afternoon.

 Fortunately, it was almost invitation time. Fifteen more minutes. She just had to hold out long enough for Dave to make his way into the living room and drop off his slip of paper.

That seemed like so far away.

~

“I’m really looking forward to more time with John,” Sarah said sadly. “I do hope it’s alone time, but I suppose I’ll understand if it’s not. I’m sure he likes me. He’ll come around soon enough.”

~

Dave flourished in to the room fifteen minutes late. It had been quiet and unpleasant and awkward. Granted, for various reasons. No one was particularly happy to be waiting.

“ _Ladies_ ,” he said with his particularly smarmy voice. “Invitation number two has arrived. I trust we’re all excited for Prague?”

There were nods.

“Good. Keep up the enthusiasm. We wouldn’t want to forget why we’re here, when we’re more than halfway through our journey together. I’ll leave the invitation with you.”

 He gently placed the paper in Lucy’s hands before disappearing. She immediately read it out loud.

“Sarah, Laura, _Lucy_ , Amelia, Karen, Jennifer, and Anna,” she called out. “Our love is like a battlefield.”

“Oh, this sounds bad,” Anna commented, immediately.

“It’s a date, it can’t be that bad,” Emily pointed out. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Hopefully it’s not a museum.” Amelia sighed heavily. “Last time was great, but I want to actually _do_ something this time.”

~

Dinner with Sherlock was quiet. But they were both still busy reeling from a very good date. And well, obviously that kiss. John was happy at least. _Very_ happy. Sherlock seemed a bit nervous, even with the mellow warmth that the date had brought.

Though John hadn’t the faintest clue why. He vaguely wondered if it was the rose. How could Sherlock _not_ think he was getting a rose? Their time together had been the most engaging time John had had since Paris. And that spoke volumes.

“Sherlock?” John asked in a lull. “Everything alright?”

“Of course.” But John could sense it. He’d stiffened up a lot with that one question. Sherlock had stopped meeting his eyes, too, and John’s stomach fluttered a little.

“You’re not upset with me?” Sherlock shook his head and John relaxed a little, reaching across the little table to grab his hand. “Just nervous, then?”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Sherlock returned, glancing back from his study of the painted restaurant walls. John smiled at his scowl. “I’m not really familiar with the feeling.”

John gave Sherlock’s hand a comforting squeeze. He wanted to be as reassuring as possible — Sherlock really didn’t need to be worried. “Don’t be nervous. You might be the only man I’ve ever dated, but you’re handsome and charming, and I think that counts for a lot.”

“You’re supposed to say that,” Sherlock pointed out, his face twisting as he repressed a smile. “I can’t trust that kind of flattery.”

“I’m not the type to flatter because I’m told to.” John asked with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock shook his head, placing his other hand on their entwined fingers. Warming them both. “I won’t tell you anything that I don’t think is true.”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured, inching a bit closer, “but it’s always going to be strange to hear that kind of praise coming from someone.”

“Not used to praise?” John asked, genuinely curious. He would think that someone of Sherlock’s intelligence and attractiveness would be used to it.

“Not beyond the ‘mad genius’ compliments. Romantic compliments are completely new.” Sherlock shrugged. Their hips bumped together under the table, as they were seated side by side. John smiled and patted Sherlock’s knee. The closeness felt really good — comforting and natural.

“Well, get used to them,” John said with a smile, leaning in to place a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. His free hand went for the rose on the table. “You have some time to adjust.”

He placed the rose right in Sherlock’s hand.

“Will you accept this rose?”

~

“John?” Sherlock asked, in the car, on the way back to the hotel. He didn’t stop staring out the car window, but their hands were still entwined and their thighs were pressed together.  John raised an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“I think you’re handsome as well.”

John smiled, and leaned over to place a soft kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. He felt the other man’s face warm under his lips before he pulled back.

“I know.”

~

“John likes me,” Sherlock said to the camera with an odd satisfaction. He had a rose pinned to his lapel. “He likes _me_ , not a construction. This...is a good thing.” Sherlock knew he’d phrased that badly, but he had to give the camera something and what he was actually labouring with was far more complex. By the end of that date John was dealing with him in the purest sense without any restraint, and with every bit of inexperienced awkwardness and doubt. And he still wanted to see more of him. On one hand, he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with someone getting this close to him.

On the other hand, he was also certain that there was definitely something going on that was beyond his rationality. It was attachment he had already accepted, but that wasn’t all.  For the first time in his life he was...happy, and it wasn’t because of a creative murder spree. He was happy with John Watson and himself, when he was with him.

This was getting dangerous.

~

“That was really great,” John said to the camera. “Really, really great. It really feels like I’ve gotten to know Sherlock. I didn’t think it would happen so quickly, but it did. And I’m enjoying it.”

Honestly, he felt bad saying more than that on camera. He didn’t like exposing his romances to the world, and more so with Sherlock. Like he was breaching both their privacy. The truth of the matter was that Sherlock was winning him over rather quickly, and John both felt in control and out of it. He wanted this, but felt like he shouldn’t.

Sherlock wanted it too, though, which was making things easier. He wasn’t going to dwell on this. He liked Sherlock _a lot_ , and it was rare that he came across someone that he genuinely liked — even the parts most people would find annoying. Sure he _liked_ lots of people. He was sociable and friendly. But this was different. Sherlock did things that he could never do and justified them.

Yes, mocking people to their face was socially mortifying and kind of unacceptable.

John liked it. Not so much because he would do the same, but more because people never had that level of honesty to them. Sherlock lived life exactly how he wanted to, like he’d given up on fitting in. And John liked that raw honesty.

John liked everything about Sherlock. He liked the feel of his skin and the way they could alternate between steamy kissing and discussion of art. He liked the nervousness and the passion and everything that came along with it. He liked that Sherlock rubbed so many people the wrong way. Because people can’t face that kind of observant truth. John liked that this was too complex for him to say on camera. If the audience got it, fine. If not? John couldn’t care less.

~

“I have no clue what we’re doing on this date,” Laura said calmly. “I just really hope it’s not going to hurt.”

~

The next day started bright and early. The girls had shuffled into the car and driven straight out of Prague to a field on the outskirts with some makeshift structures in the middle. John was standing among them.

“Hello, everyone!” he called out cheerily. He was dressed in camouflage overclothes that were splattered with paint. “I hope you came ready for battle. We’re going to have a paintball fight.”

“Yes!” Amelia said with a fist pump. Everyone else remained quiet.

“Well, I’m glad at least one of you is excited,” John laughed. “There’s equipment in the bunker. Suit up and grab your guns, ladies!”

They all scrambled to get changed on command, though several of them didn’t look too happy about it. Anna shuddered a bit as she pulled her over clothes on, but didn’t say anything. No one wanted to openly complain about John’s choice of activity, but they were definitely thinking it.

_How the hell is paintball romantic?_

John was still waiting patiently when they shuffled out, paintball guns in hand.

“Alright, any of you played before?”  Amelia, Lucy, Laura, and — to John’s surprise — Sarah, all raised their hands. Well, that made things easier. “Great,” John continued, “that will make teams easier. The four of you will form one team, and I’ll be on a team with the other three of you.”

Karen, Jennifer, and Anna shuffled over to stand beside him, while the other girls clumped together. They all still seemed a bit confused. John knew it was time to explain.

“Basically what we’re going to be doing is playing a game of capture the flag. Each team has a flag in their keep, and it’s your job to protect that flag while attempting to steal the other team’s flag. The first team to get the opposing team’s flag back to their keep wins.”

Anna had her hand up. “But why paintball?”

John sighed heavily. This had not been his idea. But the producers had wanted him to show off his ‘military prowess’. Which apparently meant battle skills. If he was really lucky, he wouldn’t have nightmares tonight, but that chance was slim. Especially since just looking at the camouflage had threatened to make him physically ill. He just hoped he didn’t do something scary in front of the women.

“Part of my past is my history at war,” he started, his speech rehearsed. “I don’t ever want any of you to have to see that kind of lifestyle, but it’s hard to understand without having seen it. This is just a simulation — it’s meant to be fun — but it almost might give you an idea of what kind of life I’ve had in the past.”

Sarah looked like she was going to cry. John felt pretty bad about that; he didn’t want any of the girls to be upset during a date. It was supposed to be fun.

“This is a game, though,” he added, trying to be consoling. “It _is_ supposed to be fun, and I’m going to be having fun. So you girls try to as well, okay?”

~

“Oh, poor John,” Sarah said quietly, eyes a bit misty. She felt ill just thinking about him heading off to war. “It must have been awful. I can’t imagine what he had to live through.”

~

It was almost noon and _nothing_ was going on. He was stuck in a house with Emily, who was studying a textbook quietly in a corner, and Andrea, who had talked to him awkwardly and politely for a moment before turning on the telly. He couldn’t even protest her choices in programming. And she would offer him the remote if he tried to complain. So, nothing to entertain him there.

He was happy, but _bored_. And bored was never good.

What the hell was he going to do for hours on end? Let his brain atrophy? He was down to one of his last books, too. Not like it would have held his interest at this particular moment, as his concentration bounced across the room. There _had_ to be something to do or else he was going to go crazy and start a fight just to engage himself. Where the hell was Mycroft when you needed him?

He couldn’t believe he’d just thought that.

Often, he wondered why he hadn’t brought any of his experiments with him, even just the drugs he absolutely didn’t have — if anyone asked.

Oh, right. Those things are illegal. And they passed through airport security twice a week, every week. Because what he really needed was to end his stint on this show with a conviction for possession.

He felt the scream inside of his head for several long and agonizing minutes.

No. He could handle this. No drugs. No fighting. Somehow, he was going to make himself behave like an adult with a tiny one-track brain.

Somehow.

~

“Okay,” Amelia whispered, having taken charge of the team. “We have to get that flag.”

“Well, duh,” Lucy retorted. “Can we move away from the obvious?”

The four of them were crouched in their three sided plywood ‘keep’ with their flag squarely pinned to the wall. John’s team had a similar structure on the other side, with scattered walls and ‘buildings’ in between, set up to look like a set of ruined houses. They had been given fifteen minutes to plan before the game started.

“Can we all remember some simple hand signals?” Amelia asked, ignoring Lucy. She was trying to keep them co-ordinated. “Stop, all clear, retreat?”

“I think we can manage,” Sarah said with a smile. “What’s the plan of attack?”

“See the line of buildings on the edge there?” She pointed at a scattered sequence of plywood structures. “We use them for cover. One of us stays here–”

“I will,” Laura volunteered. “My sneaking skills are terrible.”

“Alright,” Amelia agreed. “Laura stays here. The rest of us sneak along the side like we’re stealing bases in baseball. One at a time, all in a row. I’ll go in front and act as a scout. If I ‘die’ the person behind me takes over the scout position. All manoeuvres are co-ordinated with hand signals. We get as close as we can, then deploy a distraction.”

“Distraction?” Lucy asked. “I could use the trees and slip behind their keep? And fire off a few volleys.”

“Great plan,” Amelia agreed. “And while you do that, Sarah and I will take the keep from the side and snipe their guard.”

“We keep cover on the way back,” Sarah assumed. “Quickly, though, not as slow as coming in?”

“Exactly,” Amelia said, happily. “Lucy, you keep up your distraction. Regardless of what happens, just let them think we’re still over there while we’re heading back.”

“Can do,” Lucy said. “Let’s roll.”

~

“Well, Amelia’s plan is definitely sound,” Laura said calmly. “But I hope she left enough room for tactical maneuvering. It would really suck to have our asses kicked at this. But then again? I would be surprised if John _didn’t_ kick our asses.”

~

“I was terrified,” Anna admitted. “I’ve heard it’s a pretty violent game. I don’t really want to get shot. But John promised I wouldn’t, so... I hope he’s right.”

~

Amelia, Sarah, and Lucy were only halfway across when Laura spotted John. Rather than take the edge route, he was dodging from structure to structure right down the centre. And he wasn’t being very subtle. He was rolling from cover to cover and generally making a scene of himself. If Laura had been slightly stupider, she wouldn’t have believed her luck. As it was, she knew something was up.

There. Karen was subtly moving along the far edge. Quietly, with less show. Laura leveled her gun.

 And immediately felt the thud in her chest. _Fuck_. John had pulled his weapon while she was focused on Karen. And damn did those balls of paint hurt.

She was going to have a huge bruise below her collarbone later.

While Laura was settling into her ‘dead’ position, the rest of her team was just reaching the breach point. Lucy had broken off with a mad dash to the trees, aiming blindly into the keep and firing as many rounds as she could. She was making a hell of a lot of noise, and Jennifer was obviously getting antsy about it. So far she hadn’t been hit, though.

Amelia took a look at the rest of the area — no one in sight. John had probably moved everyone else towards their side. Hopefully Laura would hold up. She signaled at Sarah. All clear.

Sarah broke off and took the centre line. The goal was to come up over the keep wall and surprise Jennifer.

As soon as they hit open air, though, Sarah went down with a shot. Shit — sniper. Amelia broke for cover, a bullet barely missing her leg. Lucy was still making a ton of noise in the woods. What now? She paused to regroup.

And jumped out of her skin when John clapped her on the shoulder.

“Game over, Amelia,” he whispered. She watched as Karen dragged their flag into the keep. She had lost.

~

“FUCK,” Amelia screamed at the confessional. Her head was in her hands. “ _Fuck_. I can’t believe I let him get us with a fucking sniper. I feel so damn _stupid_.”

~

“I didn’t get shot!” Anna cheered. “And I managed to get Sarah. Honestly, I feel pretty proud of myself.”

~

“Oh God, that was terrifying,” Jennifer laughed. “I got a bruise from dodging Lucy’s bullets. She was _wild_. I’m just glad I had the defense position and not offense. That would have sucked badly.”

~

Sherlock was lying on the now-abandoned couch staring at the ceiling. It had been a long, _long_ boring day. He was beginning to wonder if he could strangle himself into unconsciousness, get a hold of a gun for target practice, a dead body, or something just so he didn’t have to be awake and this. Fucking. Bored. He knew he couldn’t actually do any of those things, but it was damn tempting. Anything would be better than having to sit there and entertain himself for another few hours.

He couldn’t even go back to his room before the invitation. This was torture. Clearly, they were torturing him. This wasn’t a show; it was a sick experiment Mycroft had developed to drive him insane.

And it felt like it was working.

~

“That was tons of fun,” Lucy said, settling beside John at the dinner table. All the girls had dresses on now — not a speck of camouflage in sight. John’s stomach had finally begun to untwist itself.

“It really was,” Anna added shyly. “I was surprised.”

“Surprised is good, sometimes,” John laughed picking up the rose. “And I was surprised too. You girls did well.”

A few of them blushed. John was still flattered that his words held so much weight. He really didn’t deserve that level of trust.

“Anna,” he said calmly. The other women looked disappointed. “You were incredibly nervous. I think it was really great that you could get over that and help our team win. You did a great job. Will you accept this rose?”

“Of course I will,” she said to the sighs of a few other girls.

~

“I got the rose!” Anna was obviously really excited. “I mean, everything is worth it if John can appreciate the effort I made. He really understands what it takes for me to do something like that. It’s perfect. _He’s_ perfect. I think I really am truly in love.”

~

John settled down into the chair beside Sarah’s. He had brought her off to a private room for a chat and, seeing the smile on her face, he remembered how much he missed her.

“I’ve missed you, John,” she murmured, her hand on his knee. John knew she had.

“We haven’t had a lot of time together, have we?” John asked sadly. He wished he could do more; it almost felt as if he’d been neglecting her. That wasn’t on purpose.

“No, but it’s alright,” Sarah said calmly. She rested her head on his shoulder. “We’ll make up for it, I’m sure.”

“We definitely will,” John assured her. He wasn’t supposed to — the producers said it removed suspense. But he couldn’t help himself. Sarah deserved some reassurance. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“I love you, too, John,” she said softly. John smiled. He couldn’t say it back; he wasn’t allowed. But he was really happy to hear it.

He leaned and kissed her, his tongue sliding in to her mouth, and felt her push back, just as eager as he was. Her hands slid across his shoulders and latched behind his back as she climbed into his lap. His hands dragged across her thin waist and wrapped around her to pull her close.

When they broke apart, they were both smiling. Sarah sat calmly in his lap, and he felt happy.

Somewhere down the line, he’d become alright with having more than one girlfriend.

Or boyfriend. Suddenly there was more than a twinge of guilt on behalf of Sherlock. The man had opened up so much to him. And here he was kissing another girl. His smile was falling a bit.

Sarah squeezed his shoulder. She could see the guilt on his face. He was sure of it.

 “It’s alright,” she said. “I guess the feeling isn’t as great when you’re making out with ten different girls.”

And Sherlock, John mentally added with a slight wince. He didn’t feel bad because he regretted what he had done with Sherlock; a part of him was starting to wonder what exactly he was doing _to_ the detective. He wasn’t as open as the women were. As awful as it was to be hurting them, he was sure it felt twice as cruel to Sherlock. Not only was he developing a deep relationship, but it was also the detective’s first. That made everything worse.

“People keep telling me I should be happy about that,” John said with a sigh. Trust Sarah to be alright with his insecurities. “It doesn’t feel right. I’m supposed to be choosing a fiancée. I just feel like I’m breaking hearts.”

Sarah laughed. “You’re a heartbreaker, John Watson. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all adults and we know what we signed up for. We can take it.”

“Is that your opinion or everyone’s?” John smiled, though. It felt good to hear that reassurance.

“Well, mine at least. But anyone who’s rational would think the same. It’s not pleasant, but we can take it.”

“I hope so,” John said, sadly. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“It’s alright, John,” she soothed. “We’ll be fine.”

~

Dave swept in. Somehow it wasn’t as dramatic as normal. Maybe three bored people weren’t a great audience? It certainly wasn’t a full house.

“I’ve got the last invitation for Prague,” he announced smoothly. “Sherlock, you’ve already had a date, but Andrea, Emily, you’ll _both_ want to look at this.” He placed it in Sherlock’s hands.

“Good luck, ladies,” Dave said before leaving. Sherlock immediately passed the envelope over to Emily, who opened it and read.

“Andrea and Emily,” she called out. “Let’s see your wild side.”

Ah. Two-on-one. That might be interesting, at least in terms of fallout and house politics.  For the sake of his sanity, he hoped it was.

~

Amelia sat quietly. She had been somewhat pouty. John wasn’t sure what to do about that.

“What’s wrong, Amelia?” he asked, quietly. “Are you disappointed in the match?”

“I failed,” she spat out, vehemently. “I feel pathetic.”

“It’s alright,” John consoled. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It was to me. It was my own fault.” She sighed, and shifted. “But anyway, I suppose we should talk about how our relationship is developing?”

She supposed? What did that mean?

“Well, we don’t have to if you don’t want to.” John wasn’t going to force her to talk about anything. She seemed lackluster, not really making eye contact, instead staring into the distance.

“Well, what else would we talk about?” Where had this anger come from? She had been so sweet to him before, and now, suddenly, it was gone. John wasn’t sure what to think.

“Sorry,” she said when he didn’t respond. “I just really hate to lose.”

“It’s fine,” John said quietly. He wasn’t sure it was, but it might be. “It’s not a great feeling.”

“No, it definitely is not.”

The subsequent silence was more than a little awkward.

~

“Well, fuck,” Amelia said with a frown. “I’m just so disappointed with myself. That rose should have been mine. I’m trying not to be bitter, but it’s hard.”

She left. And then came back.

“And in case anyone’s thinking it — I am _not_ a sore loser.”

~

“I’m really not looking forward to this date,” Andrea said, looking awkward. “I mean, there’s one rose, and two of us. One of us goes home. No second chances. That kind of competition is fierce. And I’m going to have to be pushy if I want to have any chance.”

She shifted and cracked her knuckles.

“I work as a waitress. If there’s one thing I know, it’s being forceful.”

~

John woke up in a cold sweat, chest heaving, hands shaking, muscles clenching. His sheets were drenched, his throat was raw, and he could barely breathe, but he was awake now and the room was solidifying even as his stomach turned and he stumbled out of bed. It only took a second to slide out of the bed, away from the heat of the covers, feeling the cold floor cradle him. Cold. Soothing and cold and stationary.

It had been over a month since his last nightmare — since the hospital. He hated these. Hated waking up scared and tired and jittery. Paranoid.

But it was fading. And it was... half past five in the morning. He could feasibly get up and have an extra cup of coffee and make it through the day.

That was the last time he’d ever play paintball.

~

The next day, Andrea and Emily found themselves at the entrance to Prague Zoological Gardens — the Prague Zoo. John stood happily beside an elephant. This was exciting. At least, he thought it was exciting. How many women got to tour a zoo on an elephant?

“Hello, ladies,” he said smoothly. He was starting to sound a bit like Dave. That needed to be fixed. “I hope no one is afraid of elephants.”

“Oh my gosh,” Emily gasped. She looked absolutely delighted. Andrea didn’t seem excited just yet, but she was smiling.

“Wow, that’s quite the ride,” she said with a wink. “I hope everything lives up to that size.”

John blushed furiously, with a bit of confusion mixed in. Andrea had never really been forward before, and he had really respected her for that. The innuendo had caught him off guard.

“Well, the zoo _is_ pretty impressive,” he responded. The handler had finished setting up the ramp. There was a seat for three on the elephant’s back. “We’ve got a first class trip, if you’re ready?”

“Definitely,” Emily replied.

~

Sherlock sighed heavily. With most of the women back, it was slightly more interesting, but still fairly boring. Their descriptions of paintball were...clichéd. John probably wasn’t feeling the best, though, after that. Faux battle or not, it was still a battle and if he had a psychosomatic limp it was more than likely John had a fair amount of PTSD. Sherlock felt bad for him; he’d probably been suffering that night because of the producers’ need to force an asinine reference to his time as a soldier. It disgusted Sherlock that anyone — much less so many people — would dismiss something with that much weight and consequence. Of course, battle would be traumatizing. One can’t avoid being scared of dying when faced with a distinct possibility of mortality. Well, unless they had an unbalanced mental state. _Sherlock_ wasn’t afraid of dying, but he also had a complete lack of empathy and certainly wasn’t a normal person.

Maybe he should do something nice for John? Would that help? What _could_ he do that would help with something like this? A distraction?

At least he had finally found something to think about.

~

The day at the zoo was going surprisingly smoothly. So far he hadn’t had to bridge the silence or fill in any awkward moments. For now. Emily was acting excited, but Andrea was being...sexual, for lack of a better word. She kept touching him and making jokes. Or winking. The winking was odd. He wasn’t really sure what to do with that. Hadn’t he already sent Stephanie home?

He was currently spending a bit of time talking to Emily. They each got some of alone time, as per the rules. Of course, John didn’t mind. Half of the fun was talking to each of the girls. If he had to deal with the awkward bits and the feelings of guilt, he could at least get the enjoyment of pleasant company. He needed a balance or he’d lose his mind.

“I’ve always loved the zoo,” Emily was saying, quietly. They were both leaning against the fence outside of the giraffe pen. “There’s just something really united about it. There are penguins living right beside giraffes, and...I dunno. It’s like a miniature utopian world.”

John smiled at that. Emily was always a bit deep, which was nice. Much better than vapid pleasantries. He almost felt stupid beside her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about it like that,” he said. “That’s a really good way to describe it.”

“Or it’s an indication of too much philosophy,” Emily replied, with a smile. “Instead of thinking about all the interesting animals, I think about how they create a microcosm. I kind of wish I could have a normal zoo experience.”

“I just liked to see penguins,” he admitted. “They were my favourite.”

“If I’m being honest?” Emily laughed. “I like horses. I’m so boring.”

John squeezed her hand with a smile and she smiled back warmly.

“I think it’s my turn for John,” Andrea lilted, coming from behind him and moving between him and Emily. She rested her arms on his shoulder. “I need some alone time too.”

“Ah...” John started, not really sure what to do. This was kind of rude, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to offend Andrea, though.

“It’s fine,” Emily said, suddenly wistful. “Take your time. But I’m going to see the snakes while you’re talking.”

As he watched Emily leave, Andrea sidled a bit too close and planted a chaste kiss on his lips.

“You and I had better be quick then,” she said with a wink. “She might catch us if we’re too slow.”

“...What?” John was struggled to come out with a better reaction instead of his visceral and intense thought of ‘ew’.

“Nevermind.” She smiled, and moved back a bit. Thank God. “Just a joke.”

~

“I’m not sure if I’m winning or losing. I don’t think it matters,” Emily said to the camera. “I like spending time with John. It’s been fun. He didn’t laugh when I talked to him about zoos. That’s all I can ask for. If nothing else, I’ve had a good day.”

~

“John’s a flustered mess,” Andrea laughed. “I’ve obviously still got it. Maybe I’ll even score. That’s the key to knowing when you’re winning.”

~

By the time dinner came around, John was exhausted. They had set up a brightly coloured tent, with rugs and pillows for them to sit on. The rose sat in the middle, and their food was being delivered to them. Andrea had laid herself out, sprawled on her side, while Emily was sitting with her legs crossed, very much like how she sat while meditating.

Andrea had been continuously touching his leg and moving in a way that could almost be called writhing. Not quite. But close. John wasn’t really comfortable. And almost every interaction with her had been awkward.

“Even dinner is exotic,” Emily laughed. “This is a gorgeous set up.”

“Not as gorgeous as John,” Andrea said with a smile. “We wouldn’t be here without him.”

“I’m not gorgeous,” John said, smiling. “Just lucky. And it really has been a great day.”

“So...” Andrea started. She paused a moment to gather herself. “I was just wondering why you chose the two of us for the two-on-one?”

“Oh.” Well, that was simple enough. John was prepared for that question. “It’s just that I haven’t gotten to spend a ton of time with either of you, and I feel very similarly for the both of you. Decisions are getting harder, and it just seemed like a good way to get to know both of you.”

“Ah,” Andrea said with a sigh. “So, what did you decide?”

She was twirling her hair. John sighed, and reached for the rose.

“Should I end the suspense then?” Both girls nodded. He twirled the rose in his fingers a bit and then handed it to Emily. “Emily, will you accept this rose?”

“Yes,” Emily, said, obviously a little shocked. Andrea stood up abruptly. Suddenly, all the sexy, faux coy lounging was done with and her movements went from languishing to brusque. She grabbed her coat and started to stalk out.

“Wait,” John said, getting up and chasing after her. He didn’t want her to leave like this. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. “Andrea, wait.”

“What,” she snarled, turning on her heel. “What could you say to make this better?”

“I had a great day with you, too,” John said, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You’re a great woman. I don’t want you to think you aren’t.”

“Alright, great. I’m just not good enough for you?” She sounded mean, but she was starting to tear up.

“I definitely didn’t say that.” John rubbed her arms a bit while talking. He was trying to be soothing. “It’s not that you’re not good enough. That’s not right at all. I just don’t think we’d go much further with this.”

She almost slumped. “Was I too forceful?”

John wasn’t quite sure how to answer, so he went with the truth. “Maybe, but that isn’t what really happened. We’re just not that close, and there’s no point forcing it. There are lots of guys out there. You need to find the right one and not try to make the wrong one work.”

“You’re the wrong one, I take it?”

“Yes,” he said softly as he realized that she was crying now. “Come back and finish supper? You can do that at least.”

“I’d rather not,” she said, shaking him off. “Goodbye, John.”

~

“Well, fuck.” Andrea sighed heavily, her makeup running. She had obviously been crying. “I need to not try so hard. I feel awful now, and I _know_ I fucked that up. John was right to do it, too.”

She rubbed at her eyes, and then shook her head violently. It took a moment before she could compose herself.

“I’ll be alright. I’ve been dumped before. Next time it won’t be my fault.”

~

“I’m actually surprised,” Emily said. Her smile made her more beautiful than usual. “It’s a nice surprise though. I feel bad for Andrea, but I’m glad John chose me. I like him a lot. I just hope we can keep this going.”

~

John had just barely come through the door before his phone rang. It was his own time, and calls were being screened; he could answer as long as he didn’t give away any developments. He sat heavily on the bed and pressed talk.

“Hello?” John asked, cautiously. He hadn’t recognized the number.

“John?” asked a rough, tired sounding voice. “It’s Geoff.”

“Geoff?” He would have been happier to hear from the boy if he didn’t sound so terrible. “What’s the occasion?”

A catch in his throat. A sob? No. “It’s Paul.”

Oh God, no. “What about Paul?”

“He’s dead.” Geoff’s voice had suddenly gone from rough but emotional to completely flat. Dead. “They kept telling me I couldn’t call you, but he would have wanted you to be at the funeral.”

“What happened?” John had to ask. He didn’t want to know, but he had to ask.

“Roadside bomb. Just him and few other guys. Fucking milk run. It shouldn’t have been anything, but now he’s fucking dead.” There was a lot of anger in Geoff’s voice. A lot of it, and John really couldn’t blame him. He was sitting on a hotel bed in Prague, while these boys were on the battlefield. He was in a bit too much shock to even process this.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Geoff monotoned. “Not your fault.”

“When’s the funeral? Where?”

“Tomorrow at eleven. At Christchurch, by his mum’s place.” Geoff paused. “Can you make it?”

“I will do everything I can to be there,” John promised. He had no clue if he _could_ get there, but damned if he wasn’t going to try.

“Thanks, John,” Geoff swallowed. “I really appreciate it.”

“Thanks for calling me,” John returned.

~

Sherlock had finally decided on tea. It seemed like a logical solution. John liked the stuff, and really, Sherlock didn’t know what else to do. Hopefully it had the desired effect. It had been incredibly difficult to sneak away from those gaggles of women and manage to elude the camera men. Not as difficult as John probably had it, though, and this was the least he could do for him.

He knocked softly. No response. The door was open though, so he just walked in.

John was crumpled. Or might as well have been. The man was sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes pushed into the heel of his hands, elbows on his knees, body curled into itself. And he was obviously crying. Sherlock had been expecting something, but not this. This wasn’t PTSD.

“John?” he asked as gently as he could. John looked up, eyes red. “What happened?”

Sherlock had time to put the tea down and sit down on the bed beside him before John spoke.

“Paul died.” He remembered John mentioning Paul. Briefly though. Nothing too specific. Obviously he had missed something. “I know it’s clichéd, but he was way too fucking young.”

“How old was he?” Talking it through, helped people. Sherlock was _going_ to help, even though he also had almost no experience at comforting anyone.

“Nineteen.” Oh, wow. The kid was quite a bit younger than John, would had to have just joined the military in the last year. “A roadside bomb took him out on one of his first patrols.”

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock sighed and attempted to shut his brain off and go with instinct on this, tentatively putting his hand on John’s back. “Are you going to the funeral?”

“Producer said absolutely not. Apparently the film schedule is more important than a dead soldier.” John buried his face back in his hands, gripping just a bit more tightly. Fresh tears escaped from his eyes as he hid them from view. “They also told me that if I tried to leave, they’d find a way to get the police involved.”

“Held hostage by your contract?” Sherlock hated that idea. John should be able to go to a funeral, for fuck’s sake. He doubted they could actually force him to stay, but god knows what kind of connections these people had, and what lengths they would or wouldn’t go to.  He pulled John closer to him, knowing he probably couldn’t do anything remotely useful right now. All the same, he thought he’d ask. “Is there anything that would help?”

John’s laugh was harsh. “Get me to Christchurch by eleven tomorrow so I can go to the damn funeral.”

Well. John seemed focussed, which made things easier.

“That’s not an easy request, but it can definitely be arranged,” Sherlock said, forcefully. Suddenly he was back in his element. Breaking the law and running around Europe? That was something he was familiar with. “We’ll have to leave at about four in the morning, and I suggest you write a fairly detailed note or the producer will have your head. Hell, he might want that anyway.”

“You’re serious?” John looked so hopeful. It was almost pathetic. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel tenderly about it as he reached out with his other hand to grab John’s. If he could do this for him, he was damn well going to. John didn’t deserve to be treated like this.

“Very.” He rubbed John’s back. “I can get us there, using everything in my power. But be aware that no one is going to like us for it and there might be some consequences. I’m fine with that, but are you?”

“I don’t care,” John whispered, leaning into the touch. He seemed to be calming down. “I just want to be able to pay my respects.”

“Well, have the tea I brought you and try to sleep for a few hours,” Sherlock said, quietly.

“Alright,” John said, standing. “Should I set my alarm?”

“No.” They’d never get out if someone noticed John acting strangely or heard the alarm in the early morning. “I’ll come get you. Just leave the door unlocked. Trust me.”

John did, so help him.

~

Four in the morning had come with Sherlock quietly waking John and telling him to get dressed. John was ready for it, and Sherlock waited politely while John changed in the bathroom. He’d also brought another cup of tea. John wasn’t even sure where Sherlock had gotten tea at four in the morning, but he couldn’t have been more grateful for a cuppa. He didn’t know what else to do.

“Listen,” Sherlock said quietly before they opened the door, “it took a lot of doing to get out of my room without anyone seeing me. I can’t do anything if we get caught on the way out.”

“So be quiet, yeah?” John looked very awake for four in the morning. And he felt it too.

“Exactly.” Sherlock waved him out the door. Fortunately for the both of them, quiet was easy. Neither of them said anything as they tiptoed through the halls and out the lobby. It took three minutes to wave down a cab and fifteen to get them to the airport. Before John really understood what he was doing, he and Sherlock were on a plane bound for London, arrival time seven o’clock.

“You must have been really close to Paul,” Sherlock murmured after a few minutes of silence. They were both exhausted, and there were bags under their eyes, but neither was about to sleep. The plane was crowded, full of chatting, and flight attendants trying to control a group of school aged kids near the front of the plane.

“Geoff and him used to visit me, when I was hospitalized,” John said, sadly. He was done crying, he felt literally wrung out. “They were the only people who really bothered to care when I was stuck there. It made my stay a lot less depressing.”

“They must have been good friends if they could convince you to join this shenanigan of a show.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and settled his shoulder against John’s. He had raked his memory for any tidbits about Paul, and that was all he could remember.

“Yeah,” John said, wistfully. He leaned in to Sherlock’s touch, enjoying the feel of warmth and the comfort of the detective being beside him. “They met me while I was in there. Paul was working on an internship, and Geoff just liked to hang around Paul. Apparently they liked me.”

“There’s a lot to like.” Sherlock was smiling, but then it faded as he turned toward him with a look of utter seriousness. “I’m glad you survived, John.”

It was the first time all night that John felt himself smile. Just the barest crack of one, but a smile nonetheless.

“You know,” John said quietly. “So am I.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to be...completely depressed over this or think that you need to never feel happy again. The death of other people should let us appreciate what we _do_ have.” Sherlock’s fingers were tapping gently on the armrest, just a slight fidget.

“You don’t believe in mourning, then?” John asked. He’d heard of the position, but never had anyone come out and say it.

“I’m not the type for it, to be honest. I was never a very sympathetic person, I suppose.” Sherlock’s fidgeting stilled forcibly. John was curious. Why did he stop moving? He was nervous, but it wasn’t about him. Definitely not about him. Was it...the plane? He remembered Sherlock saying something about how he hated flying. Tin cans hurtling through the air, maybe? Suddenly, John felt guilt hit him, for asking this of Sherlock however indirectly. “It’s something that happens to all of us eventually. We may as well accept it. It’s pointless to stop living because people die. It’s a fact of life and you’re not going to change it by commiserating the right amount.”

“I’m not sure if that’s callous or comforting.” John sighed and rubbed his forehead. The cold logic really was strangely comforting. It had to happen eventually. At least instant death wasn’t the worst way to go. He just felt awful that anyone had to die. Being a doctor was about helping, and watching people die was the worst part. John was never really good at separating patients from friends. He could never work palliative care. Even the thought of that ward made him depressed. Sherlock’s detachment was refreshing in contrast.

“It’s probably callous,” Sherlock admitted. “But I’m often a callous person.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes momentarily.

“Maybe,” John answered, “but I think I like that about you.”

“Why on earth would you?”

“Maybe because you don’t expect me to.”

Sherlock laughed softly and John thought that was the best sound he’d ever heard.

“John Watson, you make no sense.”

~

“Where’s Sherlock?” Karen asked, loudly, at about nine. “He never sleeps this late.”

“Has no one checked on him?” Laura asked, calmly. “It’s not like the door is locked.”

“And you would know that how?” Karen asked, eyebrow raised slightly. Laura turned a shade of beet red.

“Whatever. I’m checking in on him. Are you coming?” Laura got up and started across the room. Karen met her halfway and followed. They rapped loudly on Sherlock’s door.

“Sherlock?” Karen called. “Are you alright?”

No answer.

“Sherlock?” A bit louder. Still nothing.

Laura bit the bullet and pulled the door open, stalking over to the bed. The suspiciously lumpy bed. With no obvious person in it.

Pulling back the covers revealed a pillow with a winking smiley face drawn on it in sharpie. A thoughtful speech bubble simply said “Ha Ha, Gone.”

“Well,” Karen said loudly, “now he’s _trying_ to get Lucy to kill him.”

~

John had insisted they get breakfast before showing up at the church. He had lost the battle for a rental car when Sherlock pointed out that the worst thing they could do was leave a paper trail. Sound enough logic, even though they’d probably be back in Prague before anyone had the time to check for a paper trail. John didn’t really feel like arguing, though, as long as he could eat something with his third cup of tea in twelve hours.

They had gotten to the church an hour early, even after breakfast. Fortunately, there were benches just a bit down the street. They took a seat, John leaning heavily against Sherlock, suddenly feeling the exhaustion. It had been a very long flight and a very long drive, and a very long night in general. Somehow, four hours of sleep hadn’t done it for him. He was probably going to try to doze the whole way home.

“A few more hours, John,” Sherlock said reassuringly, taking his hand again. John was more than relieved that the detective didn’t seem as nervous about physical contact anymore. It was comforting and was doing a lot toward holding him together.

“I know,” John answered. He shifted a bit. “I’m glad you came with me.”

Sherlock was a bit puzzled with that one. Why wouldn’t he? Not only was he finally escaping from boredom, but was he really supposed to drop John off at the airport and say ‘Good luck! Try not to let the producers kill you!’ and then skip off? That lacked some loyalty. He was also sure John would have come with him, if the situations were reversed.

Not that he would want to _go_ to the funeral of anyone he knew. Unless it was Mycroft. And he got to dance on his grave in front of several mourners.

“Of course, I did.” Sherlock looked at him. “You were expecting otherwise?”

“No, not so much that.” John fumbled a bit. He was tired and a bit upset, but much less so for having Sherlock there. He just wasn’t sure how to articulate that. “It’s just...more of an adventure maybe? It’s nice to forget for a few minutes at a time that I’m going to a nineteen-year-old’s funeral. Paul dying is awful. Nothing can make that better. But you got me here, and turned the trip in to something less...bleak.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, with palpable relief. If he could do that, he was doing what he’d hoped for. Helping John. “If you’re feeling terrible though, maybe we’ll take our time heading back. You need to relax for a while, and that show is not relaxing for anyone.”

“I’m alright.” John laughed. Even when he was tired, his smile was beautiful. Sherlock couldn’t quite imagine what he’d done to deserve that. “They’re already going to kill us. They’ll absolutely decapitate both of us if we miss the rose ceremony.”

“Well, no walks in the park for us, then,” Sherlock agreed. John had turned his face towards him, and the shorter man was getting closer. “We’ll have to enjoy our next half hour or so.”

And John’s lips met his. Softly, but with pressure. Sherlock kissed back, finding his arm wrapped around John’s back, and slowly leaning in. Tongues melding together as John’s hand grabbed his collar, holding him close. But slowly. Nothing was rushing. And the sensation was so _incredibly_ deep.

John was determined to enjoy this closeness. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand, feeling his smooth flawless skin under his fingers. He wanted to bury himself in the other man, as Sherlock’s hand rested on his knee, his lithe body leaning closer into him. As he was kissing him, it was like everything else melted away into nothing. They weren’t on a bench outside of an upcoming funeral. It was all about Sherlock’s breath, Sherlock’s lips on his, Sherlock’s warmth and presence. John thought that right now nothing in the world could be more comforting than this. It was disappointing to have to pull away, but he did, still holding Sherlock close, not willing to let go. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t move either, just rested his head against John’s shoulder. There was a silence, but it was filled with the pure enjoyment of each other’s company, free of roses and competitions.

“I didn’t realize you were gay, John,” someone said with an awkward laugh. The raspy quip had a serious undertone. Hurt, Sherlock thought.  A rough-looking kid of about twenty stood a few feet away, hair close shaven, and eyes red. He was in uniform. Sherlock knew instantly who it was, and tried to squelch any rising embarrassment at having been caught in such an awkward position.

“Geoff?” John asked, jumping to his feet and giving the boy a hug. “How’re you holding up?”

“Badly,” Geoff said, deflecting the subject. He was really upset, focussing his gaze on the man who was now standing beside the doctor. “Who’s this?”

“Geoff, this is Sherlock,” John said introducing them. Sherlock swallowed his hatred of touching — for John’s sake — and offered a quick handshake. “Sherlock, this is Geoff.”

“I’m one of the participants,” Sherlock filled in, watching carefully as Geoff offered a very weak and watery smile.

“Nice to meet you,” Geoff said, obviously trying to fake pleasantries. He wasn’t doing a good job; it didn’t look like there was much that was any level of ‘pleasant’ in his world. “I didn’t realize there were men on the show.”

“Sherlock’s the only man,” John said with a bit of a flush.

“I believe they called me the ‘wild card’ when they were bribed into keeping me,” Sherlock said. “And somehow I’m still here.”

“I didn’t think you were into guys,” Geoff said, obviously surprised and trying to pull himself together enough to talk. Trying to squash the something that was threatening to crack his voice. He was repeating himself, and the whole conversation was just kind of awkward.

“Neither did I,” John said, smiling wistfully. “But Sherlock’s changing my mind.”

“He’s winning then?” Geoff said with a hint of amusement behind the crushing weight of grief.

“Right now? Definitely.” John looked at him a bit shyly, but smiling. “No one else has snuck me off the set at four in the morning to come to a good friend’s funeral.”

“Paul was so excited to see the show.” Suddenly the mood dropped even further. John looked heartbroken, and Geoff’s eyes were watering again. He really did look like a train wreck — hunching slightly, like he was being crushed under an invisible weight. Not a good sign. “I’ve got to go in and set up.”

“Alright,” John said, watching him leave. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, then.”

Sherlock was calm. There had been a lot in that emotional conversation. More than the words. It was always what was outside the words.

“Were they lovers?” he asked, as tactfully as he could. That was a lot worse of a reaction than he had been expecting. Grieving for a close friend is one thing, but Geoff had been labouring under something a lot more intense than that. It was written all over his face and woven into everything in his conversation, even in something as subtle as how he said Paul’s name.  There had been a current of extremely deep attachment there, tempered with maybe some regrets.  Either way it was enough that Sherlock would be irresponsible if he didn’t bring it to John’s attention.

“I don’t think so,” said John, quietly. “But it’s possible.”

“You should talk to him.” Sherlock wondered how far he go could go and maintain ‘sensitivity’. The man had seemed on the brink of suicidal, and he knew that John had every right to tell him that none of this was any of his fucking business, but all the same...he couldn’t let it go like this. “Get him to talk to a therapist. He doesn’t look well.”

“No, he doesn’t,” John agreed. Something flashed in his eyes and his hand reached out to grab Sherlock’s. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Alright. I’ll be waiting. Come get me when it’s over.”

~

“Are you _kidding_ me?!” Lucy screamed. “He hopped on a plane and went to Christchurch, possibly with John? And he thinks that’s okay?”

Anna looked pale. Sarah didn’t look much better, but at least she was trying. Lucy was going to tear someone’s head off.

“Take it down a notch!” Laura snapped back. She was angry, but not at Sherlock and John. “Something happened. Just because we don’t know much doesn’t mean that they’re celebrating their honeymoon.”

“If you say so,” Lucy snarled. “Because you know better than we do, obviously.”

“I just trust John enough to come back afterwards.” Laura walked around the couch and got in Lucy’s face, delivering her message as closely as possible. “And I know that neither Sherlock nor John are _that_ kind of person. Show some goddamn respect.”

“ _I’d_ like to be shown some goddamn respect,” Lucy snapped back, pulling away sharply. “More than just an up-and-run.”

“Well, then, try being less hysterical and maybe you’d deserve it.”

Lucy stopped. “I don’t have to put up with this.”

“Then don’t,” Laura snapped. “Take your screaming elsewhere.”

Lucy stormed out. That didn’t mean the commotion was over, though, just that the loudest noise had been eliminated. _Everyone_ was worried. It was unusual and scary and unpleasant. It was a matter of trust. Not just trusting John, but trusting Sherlock too. And a lot of girls didn’t.

But some were worried more than angry. Laura was worried. Emily, Karen. Sarah was worried too, if only for John’s sake. Whatever had happened better have a good explanation attached to it, or John was going to be torn apart when he got back.

~

It took about two hours before John had gotten free of friends and family. He had tried — really tried — to not spoil anything in terms of the show. He could keep at least that much of his contract. He had no remorse for being there, though. He had needed to be. Sherlock’s advice that Geoff should see a therapist was spot on — the boy had broken down crying on him when he mentioned it. There was a bit of convincing to get him to actually go, but he was going. He had promised and had listened to John when he recommended a couple of people he knew that were in psychiatrics. Something very heavy was lifting off of John’s chest.

He spotted Sherlock by a gravestone when he stepped out. Coming up beside him, all he needed to say was, “Thank you.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything.” One day John was going to fix Sherlock’s low self-opinion. He had done _everything_. Everything that mattered.

“For getting me here. For telling me to talk to Geoff. For understanding, even though you don’t feel the same about funerals.” John pressed close and leaned in for a long slow kiss and felt Sherlock’s breath catch just before their lips met. They melted slightly, melding together for a moment. John felt air caught in his throat, the lump of gratitude and the sadness and the love all crashing together in one speechless tidal wave. The corners of his eyes were wet again, barely controlling the tears.

When they pulled back, Sherlock looked concerned. John’s smile was a bit weak — it was a funeral, though, and he was overtired and upset and grateful and overjoyed that Sherlock was with him. He was going to forgive himself this once for crying.

It took a moment to get his voice back, but Sherlock gave him time, wrapping am arm around him and pulling him close. Sheltering him.

“It would have been cruel and callous of me not to understand, as well as just plain obtuse. I’m in the minority on this issue. It’s other people who can’t understand my position.”

“Well, I get it,” John said, still a bit shaky. “And I wouldn’t want anyone else here with me. So, thank you.”

“Again, you don’t have to thank me,” Sherlock said, breaking into a smile. A genuine smile. “I’m just glad to be here for you.”

“I’m glad you are too,” John said. And for a moment he realized that no rules applied. No cameras were there. “I think I may love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s stomach clenched and fluttered with excitement, before dropping out from under him. He wasn’t allowed that kind of hope.

“We’ve got another month before you can say that,” Sherlock said, warmly but seriously. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, John.”

John paused, not letting the guilt settle, just pulling Sherlock closer.

“Even if I can’t make promises, I can tell you how I feel,” he said, turning to look Sherlock in the eye, hands still firmly planted on his waist. “And I more than like you. You’re an incredible person. _Incredible_. And I don’t say that lightly.”

“I’m not that good.” Sherlock’s face flushed, and his expression softened.

“You are,” John assured with force in his voice. “And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to express how grateful I am to be here with you.”

John pulled him inwards, dragging them together again, pressing their bodies as close as physically possible. The warmth enveloped him as their cheeks brushed.

 “I am too,” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair, barely audible. And even quieter, “I think I love you too.”

~

“When we found out Sherlock was missing?” Lucy said loudly to a camera. “We all lost it. It wasn’t just me. I mean, really? Who the hell does that? Is he coming back? Is he just being an asshole? What kind of an idiot would jeopardize their shot at love for this kind of prank?”

~

“The whole place is in an uproar,” Jennifer said calmly, “again. One of these days a girl is going to kill him. Just wait.”

~

They arrived back on set at half past three. Just enough time to shower, change and head to the rose ceremony. Mind you, they were accosted as soon as they walked in to the hotel lobby. Shuffled into an elevator and brought face-to-face with one enraged producer.

“I left you a note,” John said calmly. Sherlock stood stiffly behind him, hands shoved into his coat pockets. “You knew where we were, when we were coming back, and why we left. I’m here. We’re on time. What’s done is now done.”

“Are you satisfied then?” Steve growled, showing emotion for once. His face was turning red. “You do realize we’re going to have to eliminate Sherlock because of this.”

He cast a glare to the man in question, but Sherlock just shrugged. That just made the producer angrier.

“What? Absolutely not,” John spat. He wasn’t going to let them punish Sherlock for this. “It was my fault. He is not going to suffer because of that.”

“He broke his contract,” Steve said, getting calmer. “That means elimination.”

“I broke _my_ contract.”

“We can’t do a show without you.” Sherlock just stood in silence. He had already accepted his fate. He didn’t have an option.

“No,” John said shortly. “If you throw Sherlock out for this, I’m leaving too.”

Sherlock and Steve both looked at him sharply. Really? John would go through that kind of length to save him?

“What?” Steve said, a little too loudly. “Why?”

“Because it’s not his fault.”

Silence.

“Fine.” Steve stomped out. “But you had better be fucking ready in ten minutes. Sherlock, get to your room.”

~

As Sherlock left, John couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.  After all, he never really seemed to want this much attention, but here it was again and there was no way the women weren’t going to hate him for this. 

And John was furious about that fact. Between the producers and the women, there was a lot of unfair hatred of Sherlock. The man didn’t deserve this, and it wasn’t right. He had flippantly asked Sherlock to take him to the funeral, and Sherlock had him on a flight a few hours later, no questions asked.  He’d never really had someone do something so...huge for him before, and with no thoughts as to what it could do for Sherlock himself. John had been confused when the detective mentioned consequences. He’d never dreamed they’d want to eliminate Sherlock. He’d expected yelling, not a complete meltdown on the producer’s part.

He knew he’d have to talk to all the women and set everything straight about what happened and what didn’t. And he was more than willing to do that, after all that Sherlock had done for him.

~

“What the hell happened to you?!” Karen screeched nearly in his ear.  Sherlock couldn’t tell whether that was concern or anger or some weird hybrid of both emotions together.  Either way, he figured he should give some kind of answer.

“I had business to take care of.” That was generic enough. He probably would have decided on a more intricate lie if he had more time, but John had surprised him by fighting for him to stay and he hadn’t really gotten over that shock.

“ _What_ business?” Now Laura was joining in while Sarah and Amelia just looked on. Emily and the others were trying to seem like they weren’t eavesdropping on the couch.

“The kind that means you have to suddenly disappear for a few hours.” Sherlock switched over to mean, hoping he could wriggle his way out of this verbally by giving frustrating, vague answers. It should work, as long as the producers and John kept their mouths shut.

“Umm, I have to talk to you all before one-on-one time.”

Fuck. Sherlock hadn’t noticed John come in and take a central position in the room, he’d been too busy trying to placate the women. Was he sure that the cracks in the floorboards weren’t big enough to slip through?

“I know you’re wondering where Sherlock was today, and I thought I should clear that up before you all jumped on him.” John was very considerate, but Sherlock wished that just this once he could be just a little less so. “He was with me, on personal business that I needed his professional opinion for.” John, that also didn’t make any sense. Could we come up with a _good_ lie next time?  “Nothing else happened and, trust me, this is still a fair game. It was a technical thing. So let’s get back to the reason why we’re all here.”

John took one of the girls aside, leaving a blanket of silence over the room. Sherlock knew none of them would believe that; no one could be that fucking gullible.

“You had to help him with business?  I thought you were a detective?” Laura asked, confused.

“ _Consulting_ detective,” he corrected without even thinking. He spun the rest of the lie just as easily. “John had a legal question and someone he wanted me to talk to. That’s really all it was. He just wasn’t sure that would be okay with the production team. We were supposed to get back before anyone noticed we were gone.”

That sounded good. But would it be enough?

“I guess that makes sense. John’s always cares more about helping other people than how it will look.” Emily chimed in from the couch. “You must be good at your job, Sherlock.”

“I try to be.”

Thank god for idiots.

~

“Do they really think we’re idiots?” Karen said to the camera. “They had some outside alone time, it’s happened before. They didn’t have to make up a huge story. I’d be mad, but I trust John, and if he’s kept this show going it must be for a reason. I still think these girls are freaking out over nothing.”

~

John had felt pretty bad about not giving the girls the truth, but the producers had told him not to mention where he’d really been because they’d look like the assholes that they were. And Geoff deserved that much privacy. John couldn’t say something like that on national television, knowing how much it would hurt Geoff.  Besides it _was_ still a fair game and that’s all the women needed to know.

As he talked to Sarah, he began to wonder if he even believed himself in that regard.

“It wasn’t really business, was it?” she asked bluntly, taking his hand. Her eyes were searching his, and it was making him feel terrible. Terrible enough to decide that she, at least, deserved the truth.

“It was a funeral,” he admitted, glad it was out there and he didn’t have to lie to one person. “They didn’t want me to go and, well, Sherlock got me there.”

Sarah nodded, and suddenly John was deathly afraid she’d get up, pack, and go. Of all the women here, she was the one he wanted desperately to understand and not leap to conclusions born out of jealousy and anger. Please, let her understand.

“I can see how, out of everyone, he’d find a way.” She smiled and leaned close to him. “I’m glad you got to go, though I’m sorry for your loss.  It’s always hard to lose someone, let alone have to sneak out to pay your last respects.”

Relief flooded through John. He was so grateful for Sarah. Every week that was the prevailing sentiment he took away from every minute he spent time with her. She was never quick to judge and seemed to care about him and his feelings a lot more than dates and roses.  Ready to comfort him, inform him, and reassure him when he needed it. 

            He kissed her, long and slow and deep, and felt her lean further into his arms. He was too tired to really go into those emotions further. John just knew that he absolutely liked Sarah and couldn’t imagine her leaving. This was so comforting and familiar — almost as comforting and familiar as kissing Sherlock.

            The kiss ended, his stomach knotted and twisted with the guilt.

            ~

            Amelia sighed, as she sat down.

 “Look, John, I’m sorry,” she said immediately, sounding slightly put out.

“For what?” John asked with a laugh. He knew they hadn’t had a great conversation last time, but he didn’t remember anything that required an apology.

“You know,” Amelia said vaguely, avoiding his eyes. “We fought, and now I want to make up.”

“I don’t really remember fighting,” John answered, still smiling, “so, you’re forgiven.”

“You _should_ remember fighting.” Amelia was in a bit of a huff. “It makes a couple stronger. We should be forging bonds and getting over things and forgiving each other for meaningful things and getting used to each other. Past the perfect veneers.”

John wasn’t sure what to say about that. It was a pretty strong view, but he honestly didn’t know what she was talking about. Yes, he got the part where every relationship has its rough patches, etcetera, but he wasn’t sure he and Amelia had had one. He wasn’t even sure they were having the same conversation.

“Well, I’m certainly not perfect,” he said lamely. “So, I’m sorry too? For not getting it.”

Amelia put her head in her hands. “Whatever. Forget I said anything.”

There were a few awkward moments before she moved. Shifting beside him, she put her hand on his thigh and peered in to his eyes.

“Why don’t you tell me some more of your college stories?” she asked, sweetly.

John struggled to remember if he’d ever even told her one.

~

            Unfortunately for the doctor, his other conversations had not gone as smoothly and he felt himself doing a lot of explaining and reassuring and less relationship developing. He was relieved when he got to the end of the women and was distinctly looking forward to Sherlock’s time when Dave appeared.

            “What?” John started, but Dave waved for him to get up and follow him toward the rose ceremony area.

            “Steve thought that Sherlock has had enough alone time over the past few hours. We need to save this show and make sure it’s clear you’re not gay.”

            That didn’t sit well.  Sherlock was right. The production clearly hadn’t banked on him as a serious contestant, nor had they expected him to cause this much trouble or stay this long. John couldn’t even come back with ‘yes, I am gay’ because he still wasn’t.  Not really. He was attracted to Sherlock, not men in general. Of that he was sure. But Sherlock was important to him, and he was closer to him than a lot of the women. He was insulted, both for Sherlock and himself. They were trying to devalue one of the few meaningful relationships that he was forming.

            “But Sherlock’s a participant and is entitled to the time.  It’s not his fault I left.”

            “You really shouldn’t be anal about rules if you’re going to keep breaking them.” Dave basically shoved him into the room where everyone else had gathered. He’d guessed they’d also had a look at the tapes and saw what he’d said to Sarah on the group date. In that instant he wanted to say fuck it and leave. Nothing was worth this.

            Then he laid eyes on Sherlock in the back row and Sarah standing next to him and knew he couldn’t.

            “Ladies,” Dave’s anger had retreated back into his usual smarmy persona, “let’s get started. Sherlock, Anna, and Emily, you’re safe.  That leaves only three roses up for grabs. Two of you _will_ be going home tonight. John, when you’re ready.” He stepped out and left John to call out the names.

            “Sarah,” John started. That choice was easy. She walked over to him slowly and waited with a smile. “Will you accept this rose?”  
            “Of course, John.” Sarah kissed him on the cheek before she took the flower. “Always.”  
            John watched her go back to the line with a smile on his face.

Lucy. Laura. And Karen. That left Jennifer and Amelia. Jennifer looked absolutely shattered, and John wasn’t sure he could feel alright about that decision. She was such a wonderful woman. He just couldn’t picture himself marrying her. She needed a more responsible parent, and he wasn’t quite ready yet. Eventually, but not yet.

            He hugged her gently as she whispered her goodbyes.

Amelia, on the other hand, was acting like a child. She pushed roughly past the other women, and stomped towards him. As she stopped directly in front of him, he winced. It almost felt like she was going to slap him.

“You’re a jerk,” she spat. And then left. Stomping.

The women all seemed shocked.  Sherlock laughed in the back row, obviously finding the woman hilarious, and John found himself smiling in spite of himself.

~

“I really wish he’d been the one,” Jennifer said, tears just starting to drip down her cheeks. “I wanted him to meet Will and my mom — they would have loved him. I’ve just...got to keep looking, I guess.”

~

            “What a bastard,” Amelia said to the camera outside, arms crossed and foot tapping at the ground absently. “I apologized. I tried to fix it. He just doesn’t get it. And fuck it, I’ll find someone who does.”

~

John got to his room at the usual three o’clock in the morning, but it felt like so much later.  Had he really been up nearly twenty-four hours? Changing his clothes, he was determined that tonight he would get right to sleep. But as soon as his head hit the pillow he had the grim realization that it just wasn’t going to happen.

Paul’s face haunted him. Talking to him before he left the hospital, he never would have thought that a few weeks later he’d be seeing him in a casket. Bits of his own nightmares came back but with Paul screaming instead of him. Paul dying over and over by bombs, bullets, landmines — everything and anything. Ripped apart and a broken heap. Nineteen-years-old and nothing to show for it but a blood smear in the fucking desert.

If it wasn’t guilt about Paul, it was guilt about Sherlock...or Sarah. He wasn’t even sure at this point.  They meant a lot to him, both of them, and that was going to start being a problem in the next month, he had a sinking feeling.  No matter what Sarah had said, he didn’t want to break hearts and be fine with it. Especially when the connections in question ran this deep.

He knew that he needed to resolve all of this, and he needed to do it for everyone’s benefit but he somehow knew it wasn’t as easy as that.  Sherlock was Sherlock. Sarah was Sarah. It wasn’t like this was a grocery store and he was comparing one soup tin with another. That made him feel instantly and devastatingly more guilty. Fuck, this was ridiculous, and he didn’t want to touch and kiss and feel so incredibly strongly about it. He wanted to just know. Know what he was doing, who he liked the most, who he wanted to try spending the rest of his life with.

And he had wanted to tell Sherlock he loved him and he meant it. He loved Sherlock. When he thought about that moment it set his heart beating anew in his chest, brought a smile to his face. He _loved_ him. Every time he thought that he was incredible or amazing or wonderful, he meant it. Sherlock meant more than a lot to him and did so much for him. So many selfless, meaningful things. And left his heart beating in John’s hand. That meant so much. And it was relieving somehow that he had actually given voice to what he was feeling, and equally relieving to hear Sherlock’s words in his ear. John felt such a rush of happiness and feeling it was hard to describe. But it felt amazing.

Sarah trusted him, though. And the other girls did too. They wanted him to be there for them, to love them, to care for them. And he did. He cared deeply for them. He cared very deeply for Sarah. _Very_ deeply. And he might love her too.

The euphoria of time with Sherlock was turning into crushing guilt, a guilt he was sick of feeling. This wasn’t what he wanted. Time with Sherlock was amazing and enjoyable and John really hated feeling it turn as soon as he was alone. He hated feeling like the love and the time they shared was hurting Sherlock in the long run. Like the time he spent with Sarah was hurting her. Like he couldn’t avoid hurting the people he cared for the most just by caring for them.+

 He didn’t know what he was going to do in three weeks when the producers told him to sleep with a few different people.

One person, one significant other. That’s how it was supposed to work and John wanted to go back to that. And he couldn’t, because he didn’t want to lose both Sherlock _and_ Sarah when he lost his contract. The producers had him.

And the thought always going through the back of this mind was very simple and very clear.  He was supposed to be picking a fiancée — or fiancé — in four weeks.

Shit.


	7. Episode Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Seven - Rome, Italy
> 
> As a note, this fic was written long before series three (which I still haven't seen), so I apologize for any inconsistencies with canon!

Episode Seven

 

Sherlock was surprised at how not sweltering Rome was. Which was good, since all of them were being forced to stand outside in the heat. It was amazing how quickly producers can forget about things like heat stroke.

As soon as they had got to the hotel, they were told to drop their bags and meet outside in the pool area. The women had abruptly donned bikinis and got ready for some ‘hot tubbing.’ Personally, he had decided that scalding hot water, lack of clothing, and idle gossip were not things he was in the mood for.  No, Sherlock knew that his fragile state of calm would not survive any contact with water. He wasn’t even sure it would survive contact with other human beings, because John was coming to pick up one of these other people and take them out on a date. And that date wouldn’t be with Sherlock and he wasn’t sure he could stomach watching that.

So he braced himself, creating as much of an outward calm as he could, forcibly hiding any trace of emotion, any conflict. His stomach churned underneath the apathetic expression. John thought he loved him. But they were still playing this stupid game and Sherlock was damn well trapped with the slight hint of doubt in that sentence. 

Sherlock was the only one that wasn’t lounging around scantily clad when Dave and John appeared. He looked up from his book, eyes catching on John, but not making eye contact. He couldn’t make eye contact. Not right now. He didn’t need to see John’s expression.

John was hovering slightly behind Dave, who was giving them all quite the lecture about the current episode. They all technically knew what was happening, but the seven of them had to stand there and pretend to be surprised at the news.

“As you all know, next week four of you will be bringing John home to meet your families. Because this is such an important step in any relationship, John will be extra careful in his choices and each of _you_ will have to make sure you’re ready to take this step. There won’t be any roses given out on one-on-one dates. Everyone gets an equal chance, but for some of you it is also the last chance.”

Sherlock wasn’t impressed. It was a three-person elimination this week, but that’s really because they could only fit four ‘hometown’ dates into one episode. There was nothing as meaningful as having to drop more people because of time restraints. And did they all just forget that three people went home last week too? Was it really statistically possible to be surrounded by six people with the collective memory of a goldfish?

John stepped forward, a bit timid. He looked more awkward than normal, running his fingers along the edge of the invitation repeatedly as he spoke.

“We are also having three one-on-one dates, and a group date this week. You’ll all get time alone with me, and more of it. Which should make you all happy.” He smiled awkwardly, there. He _hoped_ it made them all happy, but he wasn’t sure. He spotted Sherlock in the back  looking pale and tired, but otherwise unruffled, and his heart leapt to his throat. For a moment, he almost couldn’t pull his eyes away, say anything. But he had to. He held the first invitation out to Sarah. “I know I’m happy.”

Sarah waited until John was gone before reading it.

“Sarah,” she read with a sigh. “We go together like spaghetti and meatballs.”

Ew, terrible pun. Sherlock also felt a strong sense of relief. Not being on the food date was a good thing. He hated food and couldn’t cook to save his life.

Possibly literally, on that one. He tended to forget which bottle was vinegar and which one held chemicals for his experiments.

That had skewed the results in a damn lot of experiments too. Which was clearly the more important matter.

Regardless, this was not his kind of date. John could take whoever out and prance them around eating spaghetti. The fact that Sarah’s perfection was beginning to rub him the wrong way was not going to be an issue. Neither was the fact that John seemed to really like her. Sherlock was not the jealous type, and he was not going to feel singled out when he knew he’d been getting an inordinate amount of attention.

John might love him. That was all the reassurance he needed for now. Or at least that’s what he was trying to tell himself.

~

“I’m very excited to talk to John,” Sarah said sweetly. “Next week I want to bring him to meet my family. I want them to know the man that I’m in love with, and I want to be able to show John to my parents. They’re both important to me.”

~

“I’m really nervous,” Lucy whispered. “I don’t overly get along with my family, but I still want John to meet them. They made me who I am, and I want John to understand that. I think he will, as long as he gets a chance to.”

~

The sun was shining bright in Rome when John came to pick up Sarah. He was picking up the girls and dropping them back off right at the hotel room, which he was about as alright with as the women. Which was distinctly not alright. They obviously looked uncomfortable. Being faced with the false smiles and tense atmosphere was destroying John’s nerves. And his stomach churned as he scanned the crowd for Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed fine, outwardly. He looked composed and neat, perfectly pressed and put together. Deliberately neat and deliberately neutral. Even though there was no way that this could be alright — John definitely wasn’t alright with it. It was going to take all his energy to try and be fair, to enjoy himself with Sarah like he was supposed to and not think about what he’d said to Sherlock. And hope that Sherlock would understand.

Not that he could know if Sherlock was trying to understand. Nothing showed on his face. The detective just nodded when he walked through the door to collect his date.

“Where are we going?” Sarah said, linking their arms and leaning her head against John’s shoulder as they left. John waved goodbye to everyone on their way out, taking one last look at Sherlock.

What he didn’t see was the way Sherlock’s mind superimposed himself onto Sarah. It had been his head on John’s shoulder a few days ago. Seeing Sarah in his place made him nauseous almost instantly. But John couldn’t see anything but his calculated calm.

“We’re off to a very nice kitchen. You’ll see,” he added as she gave him a skeptical eyebrow. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Is this a sign that you like dinners cooked for you?” she asked with a laugh. “I’m not a great chef, but I can learn.”

John smiled and waved her off, waving off as much of his guilt as he could. “No, I don’t mind cooking. I _did_ have to survive on my own for several years. I just thought it would be fun to do some cooking together.”

“That does sound nice.” She went quiet and rested against his arm. If it had been any other circumstance, any other situation at all, times like this would have felt like a daydream. Where they could just sit and enjoy being near each other without having to think about it or put a lot of effort into the conversation. Reality was always hovering over them, though, and Sherlock and the other girls were always in the back of John’s mind.

It wasn’t fair to Sarah. It wasn’t fair to Sherlock. It wasn’t fair to Laura, Emily, Lucy, Karen, and Anna. Hell, it wasn’t even fair to John. He just wanted to enjoy a relaxing car ride with the wonderful woman he was dating.

Instead he got a mountain of guilt and the prospect of date that he would both enjoy and feel terrible about.

~

“I really do want to bring him home,” Lucy gushed on the couch. Anna was listening. Karen seemed to be half paying attention. Laura was just ignoring her and Emily was meditating. “I mean, my family is full of assholes, but at least they raised me. It’s a big insight into who I am. As a person.”

Anna nodded enthusiastically. “I want him to meet my mother. She’s really sweet.”

“I don’t think anyone’s parents are going to sway John’s decision too far in either direction,” Karen added quickly. “He’s a smart man. He knows that the person isn’t their mother or father. I would hope.”

Sherlock hoped too. There was no way John was seeing any of his family if he made it to the next week. Mycroft didn’t appear on camera. End of story there. Mummy didn’t because neither of her children wanted to expose her to that. And frankly? She ruined their images. She was a slender, older woman, with a love of nature and silly reality television. She didn’t understand how she had raised two city-dwelling boys who solved crimes and involved themselves in government conspiracies. 

Sherlock grimaced into his book. Even thinking about her was embarrassing.

Plus, with Mycroft and Sherlock’s jobs, having an identifiable mother-figure was a liability. A big one. And Mycroft wasn’t going to let anyone take his mother as a hostage.

Mind you, the implication there was that if Sherlock got caught it was his own damn fault.

He sighed internally, and didn’t lift his head from his book. If he got through, there was no way next week was going to go as the producers planned it. Yet again.

 Not that he really cared. The producers could piss off.  They didn’t give a shit about John, or about Sherlock, or anyone else here. The only person whose opinion he cared about was John’s, and that was plenty for him to worry about.

 Seeing John skip off with Sarah was twisting somewhere around his heartstrings. Out of all the women, Sarah seemed to be the closest to him, the perfect candidate. She was even a _nurse_ — she complimented John perfectly on a superficial level. On a deeper level, Sherlock could see that John liked her. A lot. He could see it in the smile that John had when he picked her up, and in the way he said her name. She was good for him.

Sherlock wasn’t, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wished he were. He wished that he could offer some sort of stable, emotionally healthy, normal relationship. But he couldn’t and it would be lying to John to pretend that he could. He wasn’t normal, he wasn’t stable and he certainly wasn’t emotionally healthy. He was starting to hate Sarah for her perfection, but — more importantly — he hated himself for his inadequacies.

And it was hard to watch those inadequacies flaunted in every glint of Sarah’s perfect smile.

~

Sarah twirled under John’s arm as they danced in the kitchen, both laughing gaily. The chef — whose name was Rossi but insisted on being called Pagliacci — had some lively opera playing in the background. And was singing along. He had also insisted on music and Sarah couldn’t help but start dancing.

But John was glad she did. Watching her twirl around the kitchen with a little bit of enraptured delight on her face was really amazing. It was like being in their own private world of pasta and opera and happiness. It was cheesy, yes. But John didn’t mind that.

As the aria came to a close, Sarah leaned back against the table, across from John and caught her breath. She was breathing heavily and gasping laughter. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“And now, the dough!” Pagliacci said with a clap. “Back to kneading, my dancing friends. We’ve got a lot more shaping to do after this. Knead, knead, knead!”

John was delighted with all the energy in this place — it was distracting him in just the right way. He didn’t have to think because they were kneading, each in their own bowl of pasta dough, furiously working the lumps of yellow-ish softness into something manageable. For a while, everything else had taken a backseat to the flurry of activity.

“After we knead,” Pagliacci instructed, “then we press. We’re making lasagna, so we use this one.”

He pulled out an instrument that looked oddly like a meat grinder. John wasn’t about to protest, though. Sarah giggled.

“Madame,” Pagliacci waved Sarah over. “You put the dough in the top here. And then turn this crank.”

John watched as the two of them started to form noodles. He was doing his best not to be cliché and think of the dough as a metaphor for his relationships. But he was failing. He wanted to think about them. About who to choose and who he wanted to be with and who he could see himself engaged to. He wanted to see things form. And compare them all to each other.

 That wasn’t really fair, though. He had lots of comparisons for Sherlock — the consulting detective brought up this same exhilaration, the feeling of flying and falling and putting things together. But this was the first time he had felt it with Sarah. Sarah was expected, everything John had imagined being with. Sherlock wasn’t. And that wasn’t Sarah’s fault or Sherlock’s, nor did it mean that he felt less for Sarah than Sherlock. They were just different people. And the fact that he had developed strong feelings for both of them really quickly didn’t mean that his slower relationships with the other girls weren’t as good. They were just different people. And people develop relationships differently.

And Sarah was beautiful and energetic and happy. She always had something to talk about. She was easy-going and up for anything. She didn’t break rules, and she didn’t complain. That was part of her charm. She would work hard and work for what she wanted, but she worked with the rules instead of around them.

She really would make a good wife. And John could love that.

But Sherlock was amazing too. And he was angry, and harsh, and often cruel. He had no respect for authority, no respect for rules, and no desire to care about them beyond what he could and couldn’t get away with doing. He wouldn’t go along with whatever John planned — John knew that instinctively. But every moment with Sherlock was exhilarating and fresh and unique. And there was part of him that craved exactly what Sherlock was.

And it only took a minute or two of comparing Sherlock and Sarah before John realized how close this was getting to final decisions. He didn’t _have_ a decision to make yet. Not for another two weeks. But he was eventually going to have to make it. And he _so_ wasn’t ready yet. He needed more information. He needed more time to think. And he needed a real vacation when this was over.

He also needed to be sure that he didn’t have something with some of the other girls. It wasn’t as strong yet with them, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be, did it?

He didn’t know. He probably couldn’t know. It was something he’d have to get used to.

Way too much of this production was getting used to things that were unpleasant. But he was going to finish this thing.

He had promised Paul. And you don’t break a promise to a dead man.

~

“That was amazing,” Sarah sighed. Her smile was absolutely dazzling. “John was fantastic, and the date was spectacular. I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun. Much less while cooking.”

~

After the flurry of the kitchen was over, John and Sarah walked hand in hand quietly, down the streets of Rome. The afternoon had been incredible, energetic, and a lot of fun, and now Sarah was giving him the calm he needed. The calm that he never seemed to get on this show. He got to just walk and feel the weight of her hand in his, the breeze drifting past them, and the silence enveloping him.

 He knew he had to ask her. He had to ask everyone. Stupid rules.

“John,” she said, quietly, “what’s on your mind?”

“Are you ready for me to meet your parents?” he asked, squeezing her hand. He didn’t really care for the forced questions, but they had to be asked. “I mean, I know it’s a big deal, but, I just want to make sure.”

She chuckled lightly. That was reassuring. “I definitely am. I think you’ll like my family.”

“As long as they like me,” John laughed. “I think that’s more of the fear.”

“They’ll like you.” She leaned on to his shoulder and gazed up at him. “There’s no way they could not.”

“As long as you’re sure,” John said with a sigh.

~

“It really was an amazing day,” John said to the camera. “I feel great about it. About the whole thing. I’m very ready to meet Sarah’s family next week, I think.”

What he didn’t say was that every time he thought about being this close to so many people, he felt kind of nauseous.

John Watson was terrified.

~

“Anna,” Lucy read, after Dave had dropped off the invitation, “Let’s go to the chapel.”

It had been a pretty standard day, as far as days went. Lucy had spent the whole time trying to talk about taking John home — with _everyone_. Almost everyone had ignored her. Laura and Sherlock had bickered over the remote. And Sherlock had spent most of the day reading. Again.

The tension was mounting, now, though. There were a few weak congratulations for Anna, as everyone dispersed. Stakes were high — almost half of them were going home this week and there were only three weeks of competition left. The feelings of having to fight for their romantic ties with John weren’t pleasant.

Sherlock slipped out to the hallway, heading back to his room, which didn’t have an adjoining door to the common room. It was somewhat of a pain. Having to go out to the hallway for all of three feet was a nuisance.

He stopped before he even stepped all the way out of the door. Right there was John, arms wrapped tightly around Sarah, in the middle of a very deep, very passionate kiss. And Sherlock instantly felt his stomach drop to the floor.  That was new. Maddeningly. _Sickeningly_. New.

Everything crashed around him. Of course John was kissing Sarah — he was dating her too. But the betrayal was so palpable that it felt like it was crushing him with its completely irrational weight. John was happy. John was trying not to hurt anyone. John thought he loved him. At least that’s what he had _said_. A couple days ago.

And it felt entirely like his chest cavity had cracked open and his heart was falling out on the floor to be stepped on.

John pulled away, a little flushed, but smiling, then caught a glimpse Sherlock, who was sure he looked like a cadaver.

“Ah, evening, Sherlock,” he said. With a blush on his cheeks and a bit of fear in his eyes. But Sherlock couldn’t see any of that. All he saw was Sarah’s smiling and unrepentant face as she leaned heavily on John’s shoulder. ‘Like the cat that got the cream,’ to quote his beloved Jeremy Kyle. Well, this was fucking cute.

It took all he had to pull himself together in that moment. Any expression was gone as quickly as it came and Sherlock’s posture never faltered. He put his foot on his heart and ground it in to the floor, squashed everything that could give away a weakness. At the very least he would _not_ show this pain.

“Evening,” he said, brushing past them and opening the door to his room. He made sure to close it heavily.

Not quite a slam, but with the heart of one.

~

The camera panned in to John sitting on his bed with his hands pressed in to his forehead. And for the first time in a long time he could actually feel the audience and the shame came slamming into him. Not only did he feel like the biggest asshole in existence, but he also got to be seen as such on national television. And continuously relive this moment every time they broadcasted it.

Sarah was fine. She was the one being kissed. But Sherlock wasn’t alright. Watching his expression freeze as John broke away was gutwrenching, like a part of him had broken. A fraction of a second maybe, but that was long enough for John to see Sherlock’s eyes harden, his face steeling to hide any emotion, his body posture tense. It was all so thoroughly and completely covered. But that calculation was almost as obvious in what it didn’t show. Sherlock was really hurt.

After all, who wouldn’t be? It doesn’t matter if they signed up for it or not. John was essentially two-timing — seven-timing? — all of them. They wouldn’t be able to help feeling badly about it. Hell, he couldn’t help being angry with _himself_. For even being in this situation. There was no way that Sherlock was doing fine.

And, as he had heard many times, it was one thing to know it was happening; it was completely another to see it going on. To add to that, Sherlock was almost completely inexperienced with emotional matters, according to the detective himself. He had most probably been the first person Sherlock had kissed — ever. And that was daunting, but also a hundred times worse than if he had been experienced. Sherlock probably couldn’t handle a romantic rival at this point. Much less one that John actually liked. Like Sarah.

Knowing that Sherlock was hurting was a deep ache in John’s chest and a thrill of cold terror along his spine. He couldn’t argue with that kind of affection. He never wanted to. But that meant he had no choice but to embrace the awful feelings right now.

It hurt and it was terrifying, but he had to talk to Sherlock. _Had_ to. He had to apologize and make sure he was okay. Sherlock probably wouldn’t talk to him right now. Not that John could blame him for that, but he had to try.

But not in front of the cameras. Sherlock had gone through enough; he didn’t need this on film. The cameraman was slowly and silently backing out of the room, leaving John to his misery now that the shot was right.

There were a couple hours before the crew went to sleep. John could wait for it.

~

The eerie music started and echoed in the halls. There was a bit of shuffling, some voices — John was listening. But it only took a few minutes for the cameramen to determine it wasn’t worth recording.

John’s lights were off. He didn’t move. He waited. He could wait.

~

Sherlock was shrivelling inside. The feeling was crippling, searing, raking, horrible. He couldn’t handle this.

Feeling terrible and dirty, like he wanted to rip off his skin, he pushed himself through a mechanical shower and changed into pajamas. He didn’t think, didn’t process, just followed the steps he needed to take.

Then the anger rushed through him. Right from the core of him, out into his hands. Books flew across the room, clothes, a lamp — anything he could get his hands on. He _hated_ her. Loathed that stupid perfect woman to the core of his being. Loathed that she was the right option for John, the one he _should_ pick. He hated that he wasn’t fucking _good_ enough; he had never been good enough.

And it was all so irrational and sharp and uncontrolled — he _never_ lost control. But John Watson had him losing control. He had him completely out of his element and out of balance and involved in ways he shouldn’t be involved. And it was all crashing down on him

He fucking loved John fucking Watson.

And as that thought settled on him, he could feel the heaviness weigh him down. He loved John. He wasn’t good enough for John, but he loved him. John thought he loved Sherlock. _Thought_. That word was colder every time he repeated it. John was kissing Sarah, now. Maybe he was sure about her.

His chest felt like it was caving in. It was effort just to breathe, effort to feel his heart beating in his chest. As he slumped down beside the bed, barely able to keep himself up. Everything hurt. His legs ached, his back ached, his arms ached, his heart ached.

He sat there for over an hour, an abyss of hurt, self-loathing and pain spinning out before him before he picked up the violin, offering a silent prayer that he would be able to play. Be able to hear something other than screaming in his head. He moved to the door, slid down it, felt the cold travel up his spine, and settle. The door was steadying him, but his hands still shook slightly — trembled as he bowed the first rather shaky note.  Sherlock furrowed his brow, tried to will his heart to stop pounding and fingers to stop fumbling as he tried to continue.

The crew scurried and fussed outside for a few minutes, then left. Whatever. It’s not like he cared. He didn’t have the energy to feel.

It was too long before the knock came at his door.

~

“Sherlock?” John called, after a quiet knock. The violin stopped and John paused, listening for footsteps. He didn’t hear them. But he jumped when Sherlock’s voice came through the door.

“Leave me alone, John,” was the slight rasp. Empty, cold words. Soulless. John immediately felt the tightness in his chest. Sherlock was in pain and he had caused it.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” His vocabulary wasn’t big enough to convey just _how_ sorry. There couldn’t possibly be enough words. “I really am. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, you did, John. You very obviously did.”

That hurt as much as it was intended to.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could think to whisper. He heard the rasp of fabric against the door, the voice got slightly louder and lower, like Sherlock had turned and curled inwards at the same time.. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m just overreacting. I know I am. Go back to your harem, eventually I’ll get over it,” Sherlock monotoned. John’s hand pushed down the door handle, futilely, his shoulder braced against the door. It was locked, but he stayed there, passively trying to get in.

“They’re not my harem,” John murmured. “And right now you need me and I want to talk to you.”

“You _are_ talking to me.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. “Let me in, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“Please,” John said, the desperation in his voice a little rougher than he wanted it to be. He wanted in there so badly, to just see him and talk to him, maybe even hold him. He could make this feel at least a little better, but he had to get in there. “Please, Sherlock, let me in.”

“Go away, John.”

~

His back pressed against the cold door, lifeless, as he heard the rustling. He heard the other door in the hall open and shut again, and some flurried noise a way away.

“Shit,” John spat. “The cameras are coming.”

“Go, then.” Sherlock felt like a drowning man sending away the lifeboat. But he didn’t want to see John. He didn’t deserve that comfort, as empty as it must be. He wasn’t good enough, he had reacted irrationally and badly. None of those things left him a candidate for any form of succour.

“Promise me you’ll be here tomorrow,” John murmured urgently. “Promise.”

Why prolong his torture? Because John asked? His eyes fluttered closed. Yes. Because John asked. “Fine.”

There was a pause, then a sucking in of air.

“Thank you,” John breathed. And then left.

It was so much colder alone, but Sherlock didn’t care. The numbness in his extremities was pleasant. He could feel _something_ other than pain. John was leaving. And Sherlock was sure that his heart had been cut off from his veins, that he was dying from the inside out. But he kept his promises. He’d be there tomorrow.

A few minutes later, after he had stumbled upward and towards the bed, he heard the cameraman settle down in front of his door. Waiting. Lurking.

So he grabbed his violin and drowned himself.

~

John had felt like everything in him was breaking when he rushed back to his room. Inside there was screaming, telling him to go back, break down the door, and force Sherlock to talk to him. _Make_ him feel better, make everything better. The way it had been this morning. But John knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t make Sherlock bare anything in front of a camera. That wasn’t fair, wasn’t right. So he waited.

Four in the morning would come and he’d have enough quiet. He could do it then.

~

Billy fell backwards as the door cracked open, jolting him wide awake. His bleary eyes focussed on John’s shocked face above him. He smiled a bit, but it turned into a yawn.

“What’s going on?” John asked, a little sharper than he would normally be. “What are you doing?”

“We’re supposed to watch you,” Billy said, lifting his camera to show John. It wasn’t on — that was a waste of film — but it was ready. Steve had sent him to sleep on John’s door, and the other intern, Frank, was at Sherlock’s. The producer was already furious that they had missed the first bit of drama, heads would roll if they missed any more. “They want footage if you go back to see him.”

John didn’t react immediately. Billy felt sorry for the guy; he was pretty obviously just a good guy trying to do his best, which was a lot more than he could say for most of the producers. Nobody needed to have what they did at four in the morning recorded. Especially not when they seemed this distraught.

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I’d let you go, but we’ve got Sherlock’s door covered too, so it wouldn’t do you much good.”

Billy felt a twinge of guilt as John’s face settled into a pained frown — he was obviously upset.

 “It’s okay,” John said finally. “You’re just doing your job.”

There wasn’t’ much conviction in that.

“Sorry, John,” Billy offered again. “Try to sleep a bit — we’ll be back to normal shooting by the morning.”

“Thanks,” John said. But his voice was flat and his expression was empty. The door closed again and Billy let his head fall back against it again. Just doing his job.

His job sucked.

~

The whole thing was a mess. And he didn’t know what to do about it. But he did know _what_ he was going to do.

He was going to pace around and not sleep, thinking about this. Then he was going to pick Anna up in the morning, and take her on her date. And hope Sherlock kept his promise and didn’t leave or was willing to talk to him by the time the group date rolled around.

And nothing would be fixed.

He regretted kissing Sarah. He shouldn’t. Sarah was beautiful and amazing in a completely different way than Sherlock. But he wished that, if he had to do this to them, they at least didn’t have to see him do it. It was hurting them. Hurting Sherlock, and right now John very viscerally did _not_ want to hurt Sherlock. Not like this.

It was too much. The guilt was awful and it was hurting _John_. It was agony to hear the shredded deadpan of Sherlock’s voice, to know that he was sitting there, still playing that goddamn violin, ripping his own heart out and that fact ripped John’s heart out too. And it was all over a stupid kiss with Sarah.

He should never have kissed her in the hallway. And that wasn’t fair to Sarah, but he wished he hadn’t. Not where someone could see them.

God, this was horrible. Nausea turned his stomach, and he was sweating and cold and almost feverish — sick with the wave of depression and guilt and horror. And Sherlock probably felt worse. He wanted to fix this.

He couldn’t fix this. Maybe not ever. But he wanted to. And he needed Sherlock to be there the next day.

Needed.

~

“It seemed like the creepy music started at about ten last night,” Emily said to the camera, calm as ever. An atonal interlude could be heard in the background. Possibly Schoenberg. “I don’t mind, but a lot of the other girls are on edge. Lucy wanted to ask him to stop, but Sarah told her to leave him. I guess he’s depressed because of last night. From the sounds of it? I would be too.”

~

“Of course I feel bad for Sherlock,” Sarah said with a sigh. “It’s awful to have to see that kind of thing, regardless of whether or not we already know about it. He’s taking it hard, too. Not very well at all, from any perspective.”

She winced, sympathetically, but shrugged her shoulders.

“We’re all going to have to deal with this fact, though. Sherlock needs to have some alone time and work himself through this.”

~

“I just want the music to stop,” Lucy whined. “It’s not _that_ loud, but I’m not a huge fan of classical music, and it’s really weird stuff. He can’t think without annoying the rest of us?”

She frowned, menacingly.

“It’s so sporadic, too. On then off. Then on. Then off. If he doesn’t get over this, I’m going to ram the damn thing down his throat.”

~

Sherlock didn’t bother to sleep. He couldn’t. He already knew he couldn’t, long before he had settled in to his violin. There wasn’t anything he could do that would help at this point. It was just a deep, coursing ache. Everything hurt by the morning. His chest, his legs, his arms, his head, his neck.

His heart.

And he hadn’t even been sure his heart _could_ hurt before this. Or that he had one that wasn’t a two-sizes-too-small lump of coal. And to top it off, he was experiencing jealousy for the first time, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t much like Sarah to begin with — too perfect, not enough depth — but to hate her this passionately for something that was _not her fault_ was irrational. And he was never irrational. One doesn’t think with their heart. It doesn’t make sense. And to feel himself making judgments based on what he was feeling _bothered_ him.

It bothered him that he’d gotten to this point so damn fast.  It’d been what? Two months? The violence of these emotions was too much for him to handle. Sherlock had barely even experienced attachment before. What the hell was he supposed to do with the confused bramble of ‘maybes’ and ‘what ifs’ that were buzzing through his head? John Watson had really thrown off his thinking. He needed his brain to be in charge again.

But that was all very, very secondary. His primary concern was with his very deep sense of betrayal.

John had been giving him talks for the last two weeks. Coaching him into opening up, telling him that it was alright. Assuring him that he really liked him. Sneaking off to London with him. Sherlock had put a lot on the line for this. Everything, maybe.  Fuck, no one got this side of him. He had given John things that he hadn’t expected to or thought he would be able to, and he had grown somewhat comfortable. He had attached himself to John, emotionally. And that never happened.

And then John told him that he thought he loved him and, for a moment, Sherlock had felt safe with this man. He hadn’t thought about how it would feel to have that torn away from him, or what liabilities he had just created. He should have known better to trust something so noncommittal. John was being blasé, but Sherlock wasn’t. He loved John, and he knew it. And letting that kind of affection grow was like giving himself a gaping wound and then offering to let John twist a sword in it.

For a minute he had believed that someone could maybe love him back, despite all his flaws — that maybe someone wouldn’t be scared away. That he could finally be loved for who he was, not who he was expected to be. And something about John told Sherlock that it wasn’t a lie, that he did love him when he said he did, that there was no ulterior motive or sense of duty. He loved John, and more importantly, John Watson made him believe that he might deserve affection. That he might deserve to be loved by someone else. That he might deserve the comfort that he had never experienced with another human being before. It was powerful and overwhelming and was arranging deep set beliefs in him. It was throwing him off balance, and he wasn’t sure he could go back to what he was before he heard John say those words into the Christchurch wind.

He couldn’t go back to not feeling the ghost of his arms around him, his lips on him. Something had broken. Something had fallen out of his control and he couldn’t get it back.

Sherlock was fucking furious at himself for being so fucking stupid. People did not like him, they never did, and he had learned that fucking lesson. Then he promptly threw it all away when this man said that he did. What the hell was wrong with him? Where did his precaution go? Could he really have fallen that hard, that quickly, for someone? He shouldn’t trust that easily. He knew better.

And the rub in all of this was the fact that he was probably going to lose to a woman that was a bit too perfect, but had the all-important vagina. Because John was heterosexual and Sarah could offer him a very comfortable, very normal life. Sherlock couldn’t offer anything comfortable, or normal, or stable, or even completely socially acceptable. But Sarah could offer him everything she was supposed to and more — she was exactly what John should want.

It was impossible for Sherlock to blame John for any of that. Normal people had normal desires. Their fling together was exciting, probably, but not a very good long term arrangement. He hated even thinking the word ‘fling’ in relation to anything he was involved in. Flings were for incredibly stupid people or teenage girls, not consulting detectives and doctors. But that was what this was about to be. And he really couldn’t fault John for liking normality. Sherlock was the abnormal one, after all.

But it had been weeks. Weeks. Weeks of Sherlock getting attached, and watching his lack of sexuality slowly crumble under the gentle pressure called John. Watching himself be alright with John’s touches and John’s kisses, and finding that he could accept a lot of things if John were the one doing it. An exception to the rule. Finding a friend in a doctor when Sherlock didn’t ever have friends. He wasn’t a friend sort of person. And here he was with someone that he could see as a friend and a lover, and that didn’t bother him.

No, that might be a lie. It didn’t _bother_ him, but it did scare him quite a bit. This kind of vulnerability was new, and he’d never considered that he’d actually be okay with being this...weak. 

It was a really big step to make. And now he was emotionally compromised and John was going to leave him in the dirt.

For once he had thought someone that wasn’t a complete twat — or crazy — may actually have some kind of attraction for him and, lo, it had come back to kick him in the face. Suddenly, all his misgivings about this enterprise were entirely justified. That should have been comforting but it wasn’t. Which lead him back to thinking about John, and, fuck, he just wanted it all to go away.

And that long, drawn out circle of thought was eating at him. He hated that he couldn’t think of anything else, hated that he was so tied down to this. And hated that he hadn’t slept and didn’t want to eat, and kind of felt nauseous. And he hated the other women, and he hated himself.

And he hated John.

But he loved John, too. A lot.

And, fuck it, maybe Beethoven could help. Nothing like music written by a dying man. Maybe if he played enough, he would fall asleep.

But he wasn’t going out of his room today. He couldn’t. He couldn’t muster up the effort to drag himself over to the dresser, get clothes, put them on and go outside to talk to people who were fine. The pain was too great. It was deafening; it struck him dumb. Speaking was too difficult when it felt like you couldn’t breathe, when your lungs and heart felt like they were being crushed in the vice of your rib cage. Everything in his chest twisted around the sharp edge of John and John and more John. Sherlock may have given just about anything to forget that John had ever touched him, held him, kissed him.

He may have. But then he’d had to let it go and forget he’d ever felt so warm and, well, loved. 

Then the truth, as he knew it, came and it clawed at those feelings, turned them into monsters that were going to kill him, rip him to shreds. The horrible, miserable truth that he absolutely believed. That left him cold and sick and hating every particle of himself, made him want to break every mirror in the world.

He was broken.

He was horrible.

He wasn’t good enough.

He never would be good enough.

Not for John Watson. Not even for himself. Sherlock dragged another breath into his body, like it was a fight not to let it expire somewhere behind his eyes.

            Feeling himself start to shake again he let his legs give out and let his body sink to the floor. Rolling over to look at the ceiling, Sherlock stared upwards, almost imagining that the dead feeling in his heart had spread finally to his vital organs. The coldness spread.

            It was all so cold, and this was the last thing he expected to feel after last week. The last thing he thought would happen when he pressed himself close to John, in a cemetery half the world away, and told him another truth that was killing him now.

            “I think I love you too.”

~

When John picked Anna up, he was thinking about Sherlock. John had slept, but badly and not a lot. He probably looked like a train wreck that had rolled himself into some sort of presentable state. His hair was neat, his shirt was tucked in, but his eyes had shadows under them, and he probably had mismatched socks on. He hadn’t bothered to check.

Anna still smiled when he got her, though. Sherlock was notably absent from the room. John’s heart leapt to his throat, and he shoved it back down, swallowing hard. Sherlock didn’t want to see him yet. That was okay. It had to be okay, because otherwise John was going to force his way into Sherlock’s room, find him, hold him, apologize. He had promised he was here. John had to trust that as his body reacted, darkening his vision with fear and adrenaline, his nerves so sky-high that he wasn’t sure he could fake this. He needed to see Sherlock, but he couldn’t. That panic was almost impossible to quell.

He squeezed his hand into a fist, letting the pressure dig into his palms, focussing himself, trying to pull everything back together and put on the mask he needed to wear today. Hold himself together for a few more hours. He could do this. For Sherlock.

He would see Sherlock soon.

That gave him enough control for the moment. But he felt bad looking at Anna’s happy face and knowing that his expression was propped up for show. He was thinking of someone else.

“I am so happy you’re taking me out today,” Anna said with a shy smile. She was almost stumbling over her words. “I’m just so glad I got alone time with you.”

“And why’s that?” John asked, with a smile. He was going to fake it, damn it. Anna didn’t deserve to get the brunt of his internal crisis. A quiet breath let him push that out of his head. Anna. He was spending time with Anna and not his own mind.

“Because I really want you to meet my parents,” she said happily. Secure. “I really think they’d like you. And I think you’d like them.”

John steered her down the hallway and out to the car. “Yeah?”

“Dad was in the military. He would love to talk about it with you.”

Her shy smile wasn’t just nervous, it was also weak. Always weak. Like she was never sure she was allowed to be smiling.

“I’m sure I’d love to talk to him too.” John wasn’t actually sure. He didn’t really want to be reminded about battlefields and death. He was still feeling the pain of losing Paul. Just a stab, every once in a while, to interrupt his very surreal life on camera. The only veteran he wanted to talk to right now was Geoff.

“I hope you get to.” Anna slid sideways into the back seat of the car, and John followed. “Where are we going?”

~

“Sherlock?” Laura said, rapping on his door. “Are you alright?”

The violin music didn’t stutter, so she knocked louder. “Sherlock?”

A harsh sound, like strings being sawed on, started to come out of the room. Some very violent music, a ping, then the thud of something landing hard against the floor or the wall, and a string of swear words. Laura waited, quietly, before calling out softly one more time.

“Sherlock? Come on out. You’ll feel better if you socialize.”

“PISS OFF!” was the hollered response.

It was immediately followed by a very loud thud and some tearing sounds, like paper ripping. Laura paled a little, listening as the room slowly grew quieter. She looked scared and uncertain.

“If you need to talk, I’m here, okay?” She said loudly. “Any time.”

Her only response was the violin.

~

“I’m worried about him,” Laura softly said to the camera. She looked like she was going to cry. “He seems so depressed and angry. I don’t want to leave him alone like that. I just don’t know what to do.”

~

Anna and John arrived at the Vatican Museums, much to Anna’s delight. They had walked through the gilded and gothic structures, marveling at the architecture, the art, the beauty of the chapels. It was a gorgeous place, and all the talk was of how beautiful were this and that that they saw, and how amazing it was that these things were made by humans. John was happy with this. Vapid conversation was exactly what he needed right then because vapid conversation was simple and easy. He could keep his thoughts in his head without ignoring her too much.

It was in the golden light of the gallery of maps that conversation turned to the women. Anna complained about being tired.

“None of us slept too well, though,” she was saying, staring up at gorgeous paintings lining the ceiling. “The music kind of kept us from sleeping too deeply.”

“Music?” John asked. He knew what it was — Sherlock’s violin. The aching, sad, hollow sound of strings and bow echoing down the hallway. The pain he had caused reverberating through the floor. But he couldn’t talk about that with Anna. He wouldn’t.

“Sherlock was playing some weird, dark music on his violin. He didn’t stop all night.” She yawned, and stretched while she walked towards one of the maps to inspect it. “I guess he’s fairly depressed. He wouldn’t answer when any of us tried to talk to him either.”

Oh, and now John felt worse. Obviously, Sherlock hadn’t slept at all. John’s six hours of shoddy sleep were at least _something_. Sherlock had nothing but a cold violin and the ache of depression to keep him company for those long, twisting hours. And sleepless nights made everything more painful, sharper, hopeless. He needed to talk to Sherlock.

But he was stuck talking to Anna.

“Did you get any sleep?” He tried to sound considerate.

“Well, I literally woke up every hour,” Anna laughed. “I can’t even exaggerate. He was still playing when six o’clock came around. But I slept alright, in bits and pieces. You kind of expect weird things when you pack all of us together. Especially right now.”

“Because of hometown dates?” John already knew that was her reason. But he knew it wasn’t Sherlock’s.

“Yeah, it makes us nervous. And chatty.” The silent ‘and bitchy’ didn’t need to be said.

Basically, Sherlock was alone, depressed, exhausted, and very hurt. And John hadn’t gone to fix it because he was being stalked by cameras. Because he couldn’t bring himself to be quiet enough the first time. He wasn’t subtle enough, wasn’t quiet enough, and alerted the whole damn film crew. Sherlock had told him he was a good person. Ha. Good people didn’t do this to the people they loved. They didn’t cause this kind of pain, didn’t let it last this long. And it tore him apart that he couldn’t just go now and find him and talk to him and try to repair at least some of the damage.

“You think I should talk to Sherlock?” he asked, calmly. He was going to anyway. He desperately, desperately needed to.

“Well, it probably wouldn’t hurt. It might get the rest of us some sleep.”

Anna turned and lead him further down the corridor. She pointed to a new map. “Isn’t the style on this one beautiful?”

John nodded without even bothering to look.

~

He’d been knocking at his door for ten minutes, but Sherlock wasn’t about to answer. It was time for drastic measures.

“Okay, I’m coming in.”

Billy pulled the master cardkey out of his pocket and slipped it into the slot. As he pulled it out, it clicked and flashed green.

The violin had stopped dead as soon as the lock had moved, and by the time Billy had cracked the door open, Sherlock was already at the door, making sure the chain held.

Sherlock who was dressed only in pajamas and a dressing gown, looking disheveled, exhausted, and pale. Not good. He didn’t know what John had done, but it must have been bad. 

“You look like a train wreck,” he joked, easing his shoulder against the door, using his weight to keep it open as far as the chain would allow.

Sherlock snarled and tried to close it on him. Unsuccessfully.

“Go away,” he snapped, not moving.

“I can’t. We need you in the common room for the next invitation.” Not that Billy was relishing this part of the job. Honestly, dragging unwilling people out of their rooms when they were obviously having a rough go of it was not his favourite activity. But he didn’t get a choice and, according to Steve, the show must go on — screw everyone else. “I just need you to get dressed and sit in that room for ten minutes. Please. Then I promise we’ll leave you alone again.”

“No.” Sherlock didn’t even flinch. The raw coldness radiating off him wasn’t dampened by how tired and upset he was. If anything, it was more intense.

“I can’t take no for an answer,” Billy sighed. “If I can’t convince you, I have to go get the producers.”

Sherlock’s scowl turned particularly mean.

“Fine,” he snapped. Billy let him close the door and listened as Sherlock took off the chain and reopened it. “I’m coming.”

Sherlock was still in his pajamas.

“Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

“No. If they want me out there so badly, they will accept how I show up.”

Billy shrugged. He wasn’t about to argue. “Alright by me, I guess.”

~

Sherlock had been dragged out for invitations. But he had stuck to his word and hadn’t gotten dressed. He sat in his robe, t-shirt and pajamas, curled into his chair and waited for it to be over, looking awful. And he knew they could tell and he didn’t care.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Laura whispered, sitting nearby. “You don’t seem well.”

“I’m not.” Sherlock shrugged, quite happy with snubbing her. She was probably happy to be rid of him. At least she got a break from bickering. She sighed, though, and patted him lightly on the knee; he didn’t bother to hide the flinch. It felt like he was an animal — wild, acting purely on instinct — but he didn’t care. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was bad enough that he was still here.

Sarah gave him an apologetic look, like she might feel a smidge of guilt in her perfect heart. Sherlock glared. If he could tear her eyes out with a glance, it would already be done. His control wasn’t all that strong right now.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Sarah murmured, despite his glare. “I didn’t mean for you to take it this personally.”

“It is neither your fault nor your business,” Sherlock snapped, settling in to a deeper cocoon. “And I would appreciate it if everyone would please just piss off and leave me be.”

“We’re worried.” Laura was still trying. Well, he could give her stubbornness.

“You’re not worried; you feel like you should be worried. I am fine, thank you, so you can go back to not bothering me.” The room went quiet.

Lucy raised a disapproving eyebrow, but Sherlock ignored her. And, fortunately, Dave chose that moment to sweep in and drop off the invite, barely pausing to take in Sherlock’s undressed state. His suppressed frown said that he didn’t approve. Sherlock didn’t care and didn’t hear a word he said, and he was completely ready to be back in his room by the time Lucy picked up the card.

“Sherlock,” Lucy read, “ _Lucy_ , Laura, and Emily! We’re in a fight for love.”

Excellent. He was even stuck on the group date. And it sounded like a crappy group date. Exactly the thing to make him feel better. He would have rather been left in his room.

~

By the time John had dropped Anna off he had decided. Sherlock might leave. Or hate him. Or worse. But he needed to talk to him. Alone, without cameras, and with more honesty than he was allowed to have. Because this whole thing was a sham to the producers but it wasn’t to him and he needed to fix it. This was ridiculous and painful and _all John’s fault_.

He could feel himself trembling, weak. The physical repercussions of being wrung through stress and overtired. The awful feeling of unresolved fear. He was scared. Genuinely scared. And not even because he thought Sherlock would leave; he trusted Sherlock’s promises. He was scared of the hurt in Sherlock’s eyes and how much it would tear him apart to have caused it.

He already knew he’d done a lot of damage. Sherlock couldn’t even open the door last night. Couldn’t talk to him. For the first time, there was a wall between them and John very desperately needed to be on the other side. He needed to be beside Sherlock, to understand, to talk to him. Needed to.

His mind kept coming back to those words.

He was so anxious that he was losing his composure, losing control of himself. He’d never hurt someone like this. This wasn’t war. It wasn’t a faceless casualty on the other side of the battlefield. It wasn’t the pain of an operation. This was the kind of hurt that left deeper scars, that festered immediately if you didn’t care for it. It was the kind of pain that John didn’t know if he could heal.

And Sherlock had given him trust, and John had betrayed that. Intentionally or not, John had betrayed that. His whole body could feel it.

The other girls didn’t hurt like Sherlock did. John knew that instinctively. They had a normal way of thinking, a normal way of handling other people. Sherlock didn’t. John’s grasp on psychology was pretty basic, all things considered, but even he knew that Sherlock had disordered tendencies. He knew Sherlock’s pain felt deeper, was more destructive, and he’d still caused it. He hadn’t want to cause anyone pain, least of all Sherlock, but he’d still hurt him. And knowing that he’d hurt him more than he thought he could made this all the more painful. That fact was destroying him.

He couldn’t even remember most of what had happened this afternoon. Anna deserved more attention, but he just couldn’t give it to her. And the guilt over Sherlock was surpassing that guilt by far. He had to fix this.

But he couldn’t do it now. He’d have to go later on in the night, and hope that he was stealthy enough to get past the sleeping cameramen this time.

He could do it. He had to.

~

“Our date was fantastic,” Anna said with a sigh. “Every date with John is just a perfect, romantic journey. I really am hoping I can take him home.”

~

It was three thirty eight. In the morning. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake as last time. The cameramen were sleeping and he was absolutely silent as he moved down the hallway, following the light sound of what he though was a violin version of ‘Ah, chi mi dice mai’[1] and knocking quietly on Sherlock’s door.

The music paused very briefly and then played a very loud ‘Gli vo’ cavare il cor’ and thumped into silence. John tapped again on the door. Hurry. He needed to get out of the hallway before someone caught him. When Sherlock opened the door silently, he pushed his way in before the detective had a chance to stop him. His arm brushed Sherlock’s for a moment before the detective pulled away, curling slightly as he retreated.

“John,” Sherlock stated. Frigid. John wasn’t surprised.

The room was a disaster. Papers, books, clothes, fixtures were strewn everywhere. It looked like a library had thrown up in Sherlock’s bedroom. Aside from the fact that the detective must have brought a second suitcase just full of books, John knew this much of a disaster was a bad sign. Sherlock had been throwing things.

But more than that, Sherlock looked dead. He was paler than even _Sherlock_ usually was. Dead eyes, red-rimmed, heavy bags underneath them. No emotion. It was worse than sickly. Sickly wasn’t a strong enough word. He looked dead. And his posture was so defensive, so protective, like a kicked and cornered animal. Nothing about him was living. His whole appearance echoed empty, unyielding pain. 

“I’m sorry,” John blurted, quickly. He just had to say it. He had to keep talking. “I mean, I’m sorry you’re hurt. I don’t want to hurt anyone and I don’t want you to be upset–”

“If you didn’t want to _upset_ me,” Sherlock snarled, “you could have just told me I had no chance of winning.”

He didn’t look at John, just walked over and sat on the bed, facing away. Instantly unsettling him. John liked to look people in the eyes when he fought with them, or told them anything. It just felt more like they _heard_ him or they could see how honest he was being. Facing away always felt wrong. Like he had no possibility of getting through to them.

“You _do_ have a chance at winning. A very good chance.” John shuffled over the books to the edge of the mattress and sat gently. Perched, maybe was a better word. He wasn’t really sure how close he was allowed to be. And Sherlock was bristling with anger. “I love you.”

“Well, _thinking_ you love me doesn’t give me a vagina,” Sherlock growled. “It will not make me a woman, and you know it. So stop pretending.”

“I’m not pretending,” John snapped back. The accusations rubbed raw. “I _know_ I love you. I don’t care if you’re not a girl. I wouldn’t want you to be a girl.”

“Because even if I were a girl, I wouldn’t give you two-point-five children and a white picket fence.” Sherlock curled in on himself, violently. “But you might have to consider a serious relationship in that case. As it stands, you can string me along because you’re ‘confused’.”

“Sherlock, I am not confused.” John glared at his back. He was angry now too. Sherlock was venting but he certainly wasn’t listening. Nothing would get solved this way. “You are male, and I don’t care about your gender. I love you and I want you to stay and I snuck into your room at four in the morning to tell you so.”

Sherlock turned around then. He was a bit too close to John after that, but he didn’t seem to mind, and he was looking John in the eyes. John sunk his gaze into those beautiful gray-blue eyes and held it.

“You don’t mean that,” Sherlock murmured, steady and cold. His voice didn’t falter at all. Like he was speaking the only truth he knew. “You don’t have to try and make me feel better. It’s obvious to everyone that I’m a joke. I’m not supposed to be here. Just because I take you cavorting off to a funeral, just because you like me enough to keep me around, doesn’t mean you love me. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something to me.” John felt his voice crack in his throat. How could Sherlock not know this? “It meant a _lot_ to me. I meant it when I said I love you.”

“You _thought_ you loved me,” Sherlock corrected with a snarl. “Because I took you to a funeral. Because I’m the only one with enough backbone to just take you to Christchurch. I’ve already told you not to make promises you can’t keep.”

“Sherlock–”

“No matter what you say, you can’t keep this promise.” Sherlock’s viciousness was abating. He leaned back, looked John in the eye and said, “I meant every word I said. You are _that_ important to me. So please stop trying to soothe me with lies. You’re the Bachelor. There are six women out there still. I may love you, but we’re still playing this fucking game and I am _not_ the best choice.”

“I’m the one who gets to decide that,” John whispered, reaching up to brush Sherlock’s hair out of his deadpan eyes. Sherlock just pulled himself further away.

“Stop it,” he said. Quietly. Not angry anymore. Just defeated. Melting into the bed, overwhelmed with depression. He was going to lose John. He knew it already. “Sarah is the perfect wife. She’s pretty much the ideal that you _should_ be looking for. She is the reason they expect you to like participating in this show. Telling me to stay is maladaptive for you and painful for me.”

“Loving you is not maladaptive, and I don’t want it to be painful.” John could feel the frown creasing his face. Sherlock was amazing. Sherlock was handsome. Sherlock was unconventionally incredible. If loving him was somehow bad for John, John didn’t want to hear it. All he really knew was that he wanted to soothe away the pain on the consulting detective’s face, to hold him, make him stop hurting.

Sherlock hunkered away from him, so John closed the gap, sidling closer and wrapping his arms loosely around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock seem to collapse inwards, cringing away from his touch. But neither of them moved away from their almost-hug.

“I know it’s going to be painful. I _know_ that. I feel terrible every time I have to pacify one of the women and then send them home later in the week. But that doesn’t mean that I want to take the easiest, most normal person home with me.”

“You _should_ want that!” Sherlock wrenched free and stood up in one swift motion. “You should want to stay the hell away from me and everything I am and take the easy way out!”

“That’s not what I want,” John snapped, watching Sherlock pace. His lithe legs easily took him around the debris, and John’s attention snagged on the pale, handsomeness of Sherlock. Even when he was scarily angry at himself and depressed, he was still gorgeous. No matter how much of a mess he might have been right then, he was still distractingly attractive, and the disheveled bathrobe did nothing to hide that fact. John wondered if he knew that. “I want to see where this relationship goes.”

“I’m not sure if you realize this, but I am psychopathic, depressive, and have enemies that may wish to kill you if I win.” Sherlock stopped and looked straight at him. “If you somehow do want that, you won’t later on.”

John stared. He had been in Afghanistan. He had seen _fucked up_ , mentally and physically. He studied it. He knew already, and nothing Sherlock said surprised him. That didn’t mean he agreed with it.

“Sherlock, I know what I’m getting into. I’m not stupid.” He stood up, closing the distance between him and Sherlock. “I know enough about psychology to _know_ depression and personality disorders when I see them. I’m an army doctor. You’re not psychotic delusional, abusive — you’re a good person.”

“I have _never_ , been a good person,” Sherlock snapped, spinning around to face John with violence in his expression. “I’m the kind of person who can’t even manage to live peacefully with a roommate for a month. _Everyone_ leaves eventually. Everyone. They get sick of living with the insanity.”

“You’re not insane,” John whispered. He knew that wasn’t true. Depressed, yes. Psychopathic, probably. But not insane.

“This is not normal.” Sherlock’s voice was getting desperate. “You will leave too. You don’t love this.”

“I don’t like seeing you in this much pain,” John said, slowly, treading on shaky ground. He wanted Sherlock to listen. “That doesn’t mean I’ll leave.”

Sherlock’s laugh was sharp and sudden. He leaned forward.

“Your tiny little brain can’t even seem to grasp how fucking monumental this whole relationship is to me; there is no way you can _possibly_ comprehend what kind of horror show you are about to sign up for.”

John was standing too close to Sherlock, now. He wasn’t sure when he had gotten that close, but there he was. And he was frustrated. Sherlock wasn’t hearing him. And was trying to hide how hurt he was behind insults.

“I am an army doctor. I know basic psychology,” John repeated, the desperation seeping into his voice. Why wouldn’t he listen? His frustration was building and the more defensive Sherlock got, the more force John levelled in each statement. He was hammering his words home. “I have seen firsthand the worst of people. You are not a horror show by _any_ stretch of the imagination. I know what I am getting into, Sherlock, and I still want to try.”

Sherlock snorted. “Thank you for letting me be your experiment.”

Oh, that was _it_.

John grabbed the detective’s collar roughly and shoved him up against the wall, feeling his chest pressing into Sherlock’s, closer than they’d ever been. “You are _not_ an experiment. I fucking _love_ you.”

And then they kissed. Coarsely, but desperately, tongues in each other’s mouths, hands gripping whatever flesh they could find. Sherlock’s hands scrabbled against his back, then at his shirt buttons, tearing his shirt open, sending shivers through him that just increased the friction. Some buttons scattered across the floor and John felt himself surge deeper into the kiss, roughly pinning Sherlock against the wall, feeling the pressure of the wall through Sherlock’s chest as his hands had snaked into Sherlock’s hair, and under his robe, and at the hem of his t-shirt. The feeling of his hand on Sherlock’s smooth chest felt better than silk — more electric. And every shift, every motion made the skin under his hands sear because his hands were on Sherlock and he _needed_ that contact. And Sherlock needed it too.

Sherlock’s soft moan didn’t get stopped soon enough. John couldn’t find a purchase — Sherlock was writhing violently into his touches, reacting harshly to every caress. Like every pore was extra sensitive. Like every touch was something more as well. And it was. The rake of Sherlock’s nails across his back was John’s lifeline. The slide of his hands across Sherlock’s bony ribs was an escape. John wasn’t sure he’d ever had a kiss this...intense. His hands were finally on bare flesh, he’d never really thought about how much he wanted this, and Sherlock was now fully pressed up against a wall, arching into him and John could feel everything reacting as he held the consulting detective as close as possible, melting into him. He wanted this, John did, Sherlock did. They could taste each other’s desperation as their tongues intertwined, Sherlock’s pushing hard back against his, breathing mingling as their mouths moved together.

John pulled away as Sherlock gasped in some air, feeling his way blindly down Sherlock’s neck, letting his fingers dig into his thigh as he bit down on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s knees weakened. His head swam. Everything connected that one nerve to his groin, like an electric circuit. Drowning him in the sensation. Saving him from the pain. He couldn’t hurt, couldn’t think, couldn’t even form a thought. He wanted John. Everywhere. He wanted to drown in John and forget everything that happened in the last two days. Forget that he could _feel_ anything that wasn’t John’s hot breath on his neck, or John’s rough hands on his skin, or John’s erection stabbing into his thigh.

This was all he wanted to feel. 

 John knew he was getting hard, and he didn’t give a damn. Because Sherlock was kissing back just as desperately and just as roughly, and he could damn well feel something on his side too. They both wanted this more than anything else right now. Between the gasping and suppressed noises — and if that wasn’t an erection pressing against John’s hip, he was the Queen.

As his hand slid down to Sherlock’s hip, he felt the other man jerk beneath him slightly. It stirred a moment of sweeping lust that John wasn’t really used to but really, _really_ liked. The feel of his bare and bony hip under John’s fingers sent a heat straight through his chest, straight through his prick. He wanted more. John fiddled with the edge Sherlock’s pajama bottoms, feeling a needy whine rise through his throat, and an echo in Sherlock’s. Something a little more desperate than just attraction, a little more enticing than any other noise. John found himself suffocating in want and desire and all those good things, and Sherlock wanted them too, and it was almost enough to push them straight over the edge and into consummating this relationship up against this wall. He didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to breathe. Didn’t want to even think about holding back.

He had to breathe.

He pulled back for just a second.

And dove back in, kissing Sherlock deeply, losing himself in the sensation of his soft lips clinging to John’s mouth, their pricks pressing through two pairs of pants. He didn’t _want_ to stop. And Sherlock’s moans said the same thing.

He pulled back again, lowering his head against Sherlock’s collarbone, his breath heaving. They stopped. Just long enough to breathe and calm down. They needed to calm down. If they went much further they would both have a lot of explaining to do, and possibly regrets. And Sherlock’s gasping and his fingers clenching around John’s back pulled him closer, both of them craving more then they’d allow themselves. He couldn’t look up. Couldn’t focus on the red, swollen, parted lips, the half-lidded eyes, the wanton need in Sherlock’s face. He wasn’t sure he could control himself if he kept looking at Sherlock.

And John was disappointed when they pulled apart, even though he knew they should.

“I love you. Please stop feeling bad about this,” John breathed, still husky from kissing. He lifted his head to look at Sherlock, to impress upon him exactly how much he meant those words. He just hoped Sherlock could understand now. “I don’t sneak out at four in the morning for just anyone.”

Sherlock almost cracked a smile. But his sharp, beautiful eyes were so quizzically trained on John that the doctor couldn’t look away. It was compelling. There was life and flushed need in him. And John could feel those eyes tug his heartstrings right to his very core, feel them pull his body closer, make him want to continue what they’d just stopped short of.

“I love you,” Sherlock returned. Honestly. Raw. “I know I love you. And not just because you don’t give a toss about the producers’ rules.”

John laughed, and started to straighten himself out. He could feel his erection subsiding. Thankfully. That little bit of control was coming back, however reluctantly. Sherlock blushed slightly as he pulled his shirt back down, still hard and leaning heavily against the wall for support.

“I couldn’t live with myself otherwise,” John said. “It hurts you all that I’m indecisive; the least I can do is be honest with you. _You_ especially.”

As Sherlock tried to stand, his knees buckled slightly, flushing as he caught himself. John felt another rush of lust hit him. It took real will power to pull himself back together.

Sherlock steadied himself, pulled his robe closed and walked to the bed. He seemed a lot calmer now, but John followed, his worry coming back in a rush. “Why me especially?”

“You’re risking a lot more than the women, I think,” John said quietly.

“Well, my reputation means quite a bit more than theirs,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. “But that choice was definitely mine and not yours.”

“I think you know what I mean,” John said, smiling a little, at the half-serious joke. He really was worried about Sherlock. He knew Sherlock wasn’t used to this sort of thing, and he could still feel the tightness of pain in Sherlock’s voice. He wanted to protect that. “I don’t want to break your heart.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up. “If I even have a heart.”

“Obviously you do,” John snorted. They both smiled, and Sherlock’s was maybe a bit watery but stronger. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Sherlock sighed, dramatically. “It’s not your fault, John. This is a competition. These things happen. Just because I’m too sensitive, doesn’t mean I should be handled with kid gloves.”

“I want you to know that I never want to hurt you,” John said, lamely.

“I know you don’t want to. It’s inevitable.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, involuntarily. Then he furrowed his brow and rubbed a hand across his forehead. John’s stomach dropped. Of course Sherlock was tired. He hadn’t slept in almost two days. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought you wanted to hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you more.” John moved towards Sherlock, sliding an arm around him as he settled next to the detective on the bed. “I ‘m glad you’re still here though.”

“I’m not going to leave.” Sherlock’s words were mumbled but he was still tense. Like he was somewhere between exhausted and wired.

“I hope not,” John murmured. But he was worried. Sherlock needed sleep. Sherlock needed reassurance. Sherlock needed to be cared for. This wasn’t good for him. He brushed a curl away from Sherlock’s forehead, cupped the other’s man cheek with his hand. “You need sleep.”

“If that’s what the doctor prescribes.” Sherlock was being flippant. John didn’t appreciate it. Sleep was important and it might make the difference between getting through the next day and not.

“It is. You’re exhausted. I know what’s on the schedule tomorrow and I don’t want you passing out.” Sherlock’s very tiny smile was gratifying. John lay him down carefully, placing his head on the pillow. Sherlock didn’t protest and his eyes closed softly. “Sleep, Sherlock.”

 “You need sleep too, John,” Sherlock murmured tenderly. John didn’t want to go, though. He couldn’t bring himself to leave Sherlock’s side until the detective was asleep. Comforted. John lifted the blankets and put them over the other man, tucking him in.

“I’m alright. I’ll let myself out after you doze off,” he offered.

Sherlock nodded softly. All he said was, “Alright.”

John sat there on the edge of the bed with Sherlock under the covers, watching him shut his eyes then, after a long minute, watching his breathing even out, watching him sleep and rest. He was tired, but it was okay. Because Sherlock was okay. Because he was holding Sherlock’s hand, feeling its smooth warmth, and Sherlock was breathing. In and out.  He was alive and the deadness that had been there had drained from his face. The cold had abated. And he wasn’t leaving. John wasn’t even sure how he could have asked that of Sherlock. But he had and Sherlock had agreed, and all he could do now is hope that it wasn’t an ordeal for either of them.

John sat there for longer then he’d said he would.

~

“Sherlock?” Karen called politely, knocking gently on the door. “It’s almost ten. Are you awake?”

No answer. She knocked again.

Nothing. Well. She supposed sleeping like the dead was expected after two nights of being awake.

“Nothing?” Laura asked, brow crinkling with a frown. “We’re sure he’s not dead or something?”

“He’s just sleeping,” Karen said with a sigh. “He probably passed out from exhaustion.”

“That’s not really good either,” Laura sighed. She shifted slightly on the couch.

“Yeah, well, what can we do about it, really? Bust his door open, and interrupt the only sleep he’s had in three days?” Karen flopped down beside her. “Just let him rest.”

“Fine,” Laura grumbled with a bit more spunk. “But if he’s not up by half past I _am_ busting his door down. We’ve got a date to go on, and he’s not allowed to miss it because of whatever funk he’s in.”

Karen just smiled and patted her gently on the shoulder.

~

John rolled out of bed at ten on the button, much to his chagrin. It was half-killing him to be keeping these odd hours. Not that he wasn’t used to them, from the army. He just hated being forced to live on five hours of sleep when survival wasn’t part of the equation. Why couldn’t they have their date mid-afternoon?

He knew that would never happen. At least he’d said no to early morning dates. No sunrises for him.

Mind you, Sherlock was more important than sleeping right, at this point. He could live a cushy sleep-in-until-noon life some other time. Right now he had bigger priorities. They all had to make it through this crazy experience. It had been really hard to see him that broken, that upset, and it had been almost impossible to leave him there, even after he was asleep. At five to five that morning, he had pried himself away and slipped back to his own room, after watching Sherlock sleep for over half an hour. Seeing him resting had given John enough relief to keep him going.

 John just wished he could have given him more comfort. Told him something concrete, assured him he would win.

He couldn’t, though. And Sherlock would have scolded him for it. _Don’t make promises you can’t keep_. He wasn’t sure he could keep that promise if he made it, and he had a suspicion that that kind of betrayal would be worse for Sherlock than the uncertainty.

Which, of course, didn’t mean that he felt good about it. But he felt better. And Sherlock probably felt better. And he at least knew that he could focus on today’s date and act mostly like the person he was supposed to be instead of a shell filled with worry and stress. It was more or less okay now.

But he was still an overtired mess. It was going to take some work to make him presentable in an hour.

~

“Sherlock!” Laura yelled, banging a fist in to his door. Sherlock jumped out of his skin, his head heavy with the depth of his sleep. He was a disheveled, unwashed, sleepy, and almost nauseous with overtiredness. Shit. It was half past ten, already. He sat up, and glanced beside him to the slight depression of the comforter and bed sheets. Evidence of John. It made Sherlock smile. Even though the hurt still was there, it wasn’t the wall of anguish it had been. Wasn’t overwhelming. John had come to see him, he had told him he loved him, gave him the touches he had viscerally needed. Held his hand. Took care of him when no one had before.

Told Sherlock he loved him. The warmth in his chest that blossomed with the thought of that reciprocation melted the last vestiges of the frozen nights before.

“Get yourself up! We’re going to leave you here if you don’t stop being moody before date time.”

“I’m awake,” he answered, getting up and calling from behind the door, not bothering to open it. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Good,” Laura said, the harshness fading from her voice. “We were worried.”

“No need to be concerned. I just overslept.” He tried to cover any embarrassment and annoyance. Why did they care so much? It wasn’t like he died. If he missed a date, better chances for them. And he knew that some of them still hated him. Lucy, for example. At this point he and Laura had a very firm mutual antagonism. Maybe she wanted to use this probably silly competition — judging by the invitation — to directly compete with him?

It didn’t matter now. What mattered is that he still felt like crap and should be able to sleep for another twelve hours in peace. But he needed to get dressed, look presentable, and try to act like a human being rather than an automaton.

He would get to see John again. Hopefully he’d have a bit more control over himself this time.

~

About half an hour later, the four of them were shuffled into a car and taken a ways away from the hotel. The driver dropped them off in front of the Coliseum.

“Woah,” Laura said, under her breath. “This is a big deal.”

Lucy and Emily were gaping upwards, just staring at the structure. The massive Roman architectural beauty of a war pit. Sherlock, meanwhile, was torn between excitement and displeasure. On one hand, the Coliseum was an amazing place for John to take them. On the other hand, he wasn’t too excited about fake gladiator games.

John came out of the entrance, wearing a very typical toga and the laurel leaf circle that was supposed to mark him as an ‘emperor.’ Admittedly, John mostly looked silly. But there was a certain thrill to see him running around even this slightly exposed. That was new and interesting. Sherlock had been almost absolutely positive that any ‘libido’ he might have had was dead and buried sometime before puberty, but suddenly it seemed to be struggling back into existence. Especially after last night. This was going to be an awkward day.

Sherlock could see the edges of John’s scar under the shoulder of the toga.

“Hello, champions!” John said in a half-commanding, half-ridiculous tone. “Are you prepared for battle?”

“Yes!” Lucy yelled. The other three just nodded.

“Good! My attendants will show you where your uniforms are. And then, we fight!” He gestured at some staff who were also wearing togas.

Oh no. They were going to try and put him in a robe and armour. In the sun and the heat, to burn his pearly white skin and embarrass him beyond belief. All he needed right now were body issues, or to feel very exposed. He knew he had a fight before he even bothered to ask the staff about it. These were not going to be optional.

He braced himself. Sherlock was about to show the producers just how disagreeable he could be.

~

“Honestly, I didn’t want this date to be a series of poignant moments,” John said to a camera, his laurel leaves sitting crookedly on his head. “I mostly just wanted to do something a little bit silly. Relaxing. So at least they can have fun before the big decisions are made.”

John adjusted his toga strap surreptitiously. And smiled.

~

“I’m not sure, how I feel about this,” Emily said to a camera, sporting a toga herself, hair now braided. She looked positively Roman. “My classical training is crying about the ‘togas,’ but I think this might be fun. Obviously my need for historical accuracy is cramping my sense of adventure.”

~

“I will _not_ ,” Sherlock growled at Dave, not even trying for diplomacy. “I am not about to lower myself for anyone’s ideas of production.”

“Not even for John?” Dave asked, in his most heartfelt voice. It was still fake.

“For John, I will wear the idiotic strips of fabric over my clothes.” Sherlock’s eyes closed in exasperation. He had admitted it out loud. But there was still a limit to how far he would degrade himself on national television. “But nothing else. These aren’t flattering, aren’t historically accurate, and are really poor excuses for Roman dress.”

“We’ll take it,” Dave said with a big smile of triumph. Strangely, Sherlock felt like he’d been cheated out of a bigger argument. “Get dressed, Sherlock.”

Why did it still feel like he’d lost the battle?

~

The four of them stumbled out into the arena, the women wearing togas and Sherlock wearing leather skirt and ‘breastplate’ over a pair of trousers and a shirt.  John was definitely amused. And somewhat disappointed. Sherlock managed to wear long sleeves and trousers all the time. He counted himself lucky when he got to see a sliver of wrist or collarbone. He really should have expected the odd clothing combination.

“Alright,” he called from his makeshift seat at the edge of the arena. On cue, the staff passed all of them foam swords. “Spearing someone with your sword means they’re dead. The rules of this competition are no foul play and no fist fighting. Last person standing, wins!”

“And the prize?” called Laura. “What do we win?”

“Glory and honour!” John answered, loudly. “And the joy of victory!”

Maybe not a great prize, but there wasn’t anything else to give. He wasn’t about to promise the rose — the only one that he could give out before the rose ceremony — and he wasn’t about to say something like ‘his love’ or ‘the emperor’s hand in marriage’ just to make a joke. This was a serious issue and not all of these girls would be here next week. He didn’t want to risk giving them false hope.

Even if he did see a disappointed eyeroll from Lucy.

“Now,” he boomed, “begin!”

Lucy immediately jabbed at Emily. Fortunately, Emily was a bit quicker than she was, and dodged. Laura went for Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t surprised somehow — what with how competitive she always was to him, but he also wasn’t about to lose. His honour was on the line after all. And his pride. He had some combat training, and they didn’t have the advantage of confusion this time. This wouldn’t be his fight with Tara.

Laura lunged and Sherlock dodged, turning around her sword with his in the air. It came down on her back, which wasn’t technically a fatality. She thrust her sword under her arm at him, but he avoided. It was easy to dance around her clumsy attacks, but not as easy to get close to her when she was flailing. Instead, he parried like his life depended on it and pretended to be weakening.

From the corner of his eye he saw Lucy stab Emily. Emily’s fake death cry distracted Laura just long enough for him to pierce her heart. Well, push his sword against her chest. She looked surprised for a moment. Just long enough for satisfaction before she went back in to character, clutching her heart and pretending to stagger. As she collapsed, Sherlock faced off with Lucy.

“I’m going to kill you,” she laughed, swinging blindly at him. He wasn’t impressed. Instead of saying anything in return, he simply retreated. A quick skitter backwards where she followed with a lunge. It only took a little bit of force and speed for him to switch directions at the same time as he hit her blade down, leaving him with a clear opening. It had only taken a moment to beat her.

“Well,” John said, loudly, as Lucy fell to her knees. “We have a winner!”

Sherlock was too busy feeling cathartic about the whole experience. Somehow, killing his opponents had also released some tension. Like he had beat them emotionally too.

He couldn’t believe that, but at least he felt that relief.

~

“Wow,” Laura said, eyes glazed slightly. “Sherlock is _way_ stronger than he looks. That was really kind of cool.”

~

“No, I’m not ashamed I lost,” Lucy said with a sigh. “Disappointed but not ashamed. I didn’t lose John’s love with the battle. I just lost to Sherlock.”

She frowned, and turned slightly away.

“Not like I’m happy about that, though.”

~

The staff had set up a tent-and-carpet-and-cushions pavilion for them to sit in. Sherlock ditched his leather ensemble, but the rest of them stayed in togas. John was eating some of the grapes that were lying around, trying his best to look imperial.

“Incredible battle, gladiators,” he crowed, trying his best to keep up the light-hearted tone. He felt silly, but silly and tired was far better than he had felt yesterday. Conversations were going to be okay and John was actually looking forward to them. That shocked even him.

But seeing the smiles on everyone’s faces, especially Sherlock’s, he was happy.

Well, Lucy wasn’t smiling. But he somehow had expected that.

~

“Is everything alright?” John asked Lucy, quietly. They were sitting on a bench a little way from the pavilion. “You seem a bit put off.”

“I’m just smarting from losing,” Lucy answered with a sigh. “I guess I’m a bit too competitive for my own good.”

 “Are you always competitive?” John really was trying to feel out who he wanted to keep. He didn’t want to keep someone he would regret. He thought he knew who the final four were, but he needed to confirm.

“Well, no,” Lucy said, backtracking. She was obviously trying to look her best. Personality-wise. “Usually just in sports. But I just don’t really like losing, is all. I never have.”

“I don’t think any of us really do.” John was a bit disappointed. Not getting anything from Lucy on this subject. “Don’t feel too bad about it.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Lucy assured him, resting her hand on his knee. “I’m too busy thinking about next week.”

“I take it you’re ready to take me home?” John wasn’t ready, but the girls seemed to be. He just hoped no one’s parents would want to kill him for taking their daughters...or son. Visions of the older, fatter Holmes brother danced through his head momentarily before he could stop them.

“Of course I am! I love you, John. So much.” John smiled and gave her a hug, which was all he could do.  At least, while there were cameras he couldn’t say it back. Besides, he was pretty sure he didn’t want to. No matter how much of a big moment the love confession was supposed to be.

Lucy leaned in to kiss him.

~

“I want you to meet my grandfather,” Laura cheered. “And my mom. And my sister. It’s not a huge family, but the four of us are pretty close. And I think you’ll fit in fine.”

“It sounds pretty exciting,” John said with a more genuine smile this time. He liked Laura. She was the kind of girl he could easily talk to, and she really deserved more attention than John gave her. She was young — quite a bit younger than he was — but she acted mature enough to not feel like he was babysitting.

“It _is_ pretty exciting,” she laughed. “I mean, I love talking to you and I love spending time with you. It only makes sense that you should come and see where I do things. School, home, that kind of thing. Especially since we’ve gotten to see so much of your past. Time for you to see some of mine.”

“You said you were in fashion?” John asked. He really would like to talk to Laura more. With all the emphasis on Sherlock and Sarah, he had let some of the girls slip through the cracks. Laura was one of them. He definitely wanted to get to know her a bit better, before this was over.

“Yeah, fashion and design,” she cracked a smile. “And I’m pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

“I trust you,” John laughed. “Maybe you’ll get to show me some of your work.”

~

“My dad’s a bit of a dictator,” Emily said calmly. John instantly felt a bit of fear. “But he’s kind of a gentle lion. He’ll understand when I talk to him. He’s great.”

“I’m sure he is,” John said, trying to squash the panic reaction. He wasn’t supposed to be taking family into consideration in these choices. “I know a lot of men come off scarier than they are.”

“He does especially,” Emily said with a sigh. “My mother balances him out, though, so there’s nothing to worry about on that side.”

John wasn’t surprised. Emily was a calm woman. Always a bit Zen, if he could use that term. He was sure she would. And he could definitely appreciate that kind of character in this setting. That little bit of calm could be a bit of a respite.

~

When Sherlock sat down, John offered the flower to him, trying to look casual. “Will the victor accept this rose?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said with a smirk. He rested the flower on his lap, seeing John’s expression shift to something really happy. It was satisfying, and oddly reassuring.  John hadn’t promised him a rose, but he’d gotten one anyway. And that made him smile. They were supposed to be talking to John alone about why they wanted him to meet their families. Somehow Sherlock wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.

But he could have it. That was more than he could have said yesterday.

“Look, John,” Sherlock said calmly. John could feel the nervousness. He really hoped it didn’t have anything to do with the previous night, but he didn’t think so. Sherlock was looking healthier again — like the sleep had done him more than good. “If you want to see where I live next week, I’d be happy to show you.”

“Well, good,” John laughed. He wasn’t sure why that seemed to be bothering Sherlock. He _wanted_ to see Sherlock’s home. Why was that scary? “That’s part of the point of hometown dates.”

“But it might not be pleasant,” Sherlock insisted. He really needed John to understand this point. Sherlock didn’t have family. Or friends. Or a real job. He had a network of acquaintances and connections. Nothing like John, and none of them would think he would treat John well. Which was nonsense, but founded on truth. “I don’t really have a lot of friends, and they may tell you to stay away from me. And as for family...I’m sure you already can guess.”

“I’ve already met your terrifying brother, yes,” John said with a laugh. Without thinking. He really shouldn’t have mentioned that on camera. But it was too late — Sherlock’s expression twisted with surprise and curiosity and John had to hope that they had the sense to cut this from the final tapes.

“When did you meet Mycroft?” Sherlock asked sharply. He wasn’t worried about the conversation — Mycroft was paying the producers to keep him. He could pay them to destroy a little bit of film. “And what did he say to you?”

John blushed. “Ah, a few weeks ago. The week you were working. He told me not to hurt you.”

“Or what?”

“Or he would make my life miserable.”

Sherlock’s frown darkened. Mycroft had dabbled in something he never should have. This was _not_ his brother’s business. “When I get back to London, I have a murder to plan.”

John laughed. Sherlock didn’t. Somehow that made John’s chest warm — of course Sherlock was serious about murders. He was probably weighing the cost-benefit and debating how to not get caught. Not that he thought Sherlock would actually follow through with it.

“You don’t have to kill your brother for me. I didn’t want to hurt you anyway.” John smiled, and Sherlock could feel himself move back to worry.

“That doesn’t mean he should have meddled in my affairs.” Sherlock sighed and pressed a hand on his forehead, trying to articulate his fears to John. “Mycroft barely counts as normal family, though. And I don’t have much in the way of friends.”

“Sherlock.” John had grabbed his hands and was looking him straight in the eyes. His smile was genuine and he felt Sherlock relax into the contact, in a way he hadn’t quite fully managed before. “It’s okay. You don’t have to have a million friends and people don’t have to tell me how amazing you are. I can figure that out for myself.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged a bit. He hated that he needed that reassurance. But he needed that reassurance. There was something more tangible about hearing John say it.

“Thank you, John.”

John’s response was warmer and brighter than it had been lately. “Any time, Sherlock.”

~

Karen was not surprised when Dave handed her the last invitation for the week. She was the only one left. As he disappeared out of the room, she opened it and read it aloud for the benefit of the cameras, more so than Sarah and Anna

“Karen,” she read with a smile, “Let’s relax in the shade.”

She had no idea what the date would entail. But that was alright with her.

~

“I feel a bit cheated that Sherlock got the rose,” Lucy admitted. “But John is so sweet. I trust him. And I know he’ll pick me. He _has_ to feel this too. It’s such a strong love.”

~

“It was an interesting date,” Emily said with a smile. “I enjoyed it, despite everything. And I hope I can do it again sometime.”

~

Laura sat in front of the camera, but she didn’t actually say anything. After a moment, she pursed her lips and stood up again. She didn’t know what to say.

~

The next day, Karen found herself in an olive grove, arm-in-arm with John. They had been strolling around with a basket, picking olives from the low branches and chatting. John knew she was easy to talk to, and he knew she was a good companion for slow afternoon dates.

Plus, olive oil was kind of like wine making, wasn’t it? He figured she’d find it familiar.

“These orchards are always so gorgeous,” Karen sighed. She looked wistful and happy, which made John happy. “It’s just such a beautiful and picturesque way to grow food.”

“It is definitely a nice place for a stroll,” John agreed. That’s why he had chosen this date after all. “And I think it’s so important — culturally, I mean — that it doesn’t really get proper appreciation compared to other tourist sites.”

“It definitely doesn’t.” Karen smiled brightly and grabbed another handful of olives from a tree. “It kind of reminds me of home. No one appreciates the vineyards when they’re picking grapes. But it’s such a beautiful place to be, and it produces so much food and wine and celebration. It’s home.”

John smiled. He wanted to see Karen’s home. She sounded so in love with it and so happy when she talked about the vineyard. He wanted to see that. And he wanted to see the family dynamic that could produce someone like her. Honest and blunt with a love of grapes. She was an interesting person. John could appreciate that.

“What’s home like for you?” John asked. He needed to know these kinds of things right now.

“It’s kind of...mixed.” Karen stopped. “I love my dad. And my mom. But it’s been strange to be running the vineyard and it’s been kind of odd to be the responsible one. My parents are busy with their lives, and I get to be the grown up for the first time. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet, even though it’s already been a while.”

John nodded. He remembered when his parents had stopped being perfect. It had been a long time ago for him, but it seemed fresher for Karen. It was always a moment that smarted.

“But the actual vineyard and the people and my family? Are all great.” Karen was smiling again. She let go of John’s arm and motioned to the orchard they were in. “It’s about five times the size of this place, and it’s beautiful. I really hope I get to show it to you.”

John grabbed her hand again, and looked her in the eyes. He hoped the same thing.

~

“I don’t know,” Laura said quietly. “I really don’t know. I want to show John my home. He feels like a childhood friend. Like he should have been there when I was five.”

“So stop worrying,” Sarah said with a pat on the other girl’s knee. Sherlock was trying hard not to listen to any of the girls and _especially_ Sarah. He was failing miserably. “John’s a good man. If he feels the same, he’ll be honest about it.”

“It’s not John I’m worried about,” Laura admitted. Sherlock could tell that something was weighing her down. And it wasn’t her affection for John. Something was on her mind.

“You’re just under stress,” Sarah reassured when Laura didn’t continue. She didn’t press, much to the disappointment of Sherlock’s curiosity. He hadn’t pinpointed what was bothering Laura. All he knew was that it was emotional. Internal conflict of some persuasion. “It’s been getting harder for all of us. Just don’t doubt yourself. John’s smart enough to make the right choices.”

“Yeah,” Laura said quietly. “I’ll shake myself out of it, I guess.”

“You will.” Sarah was _so_ damn perfect. Sherlock really was finding a passionate hatred for her. He didn’t like anyone that was too perfect.

And he was going to be very insistent that it wasn’t because of the knot of jealousy that was still in his stomach. He was very good at ignoring his irrational emotions.

~

Karen was giddy when they got to the olive presses.

“I never get to press things by hand anymore!” she squealed. “I’ve always got to let the workers handle it while I supervise. I used to love crushing grapes when I was a kid.”

“Well, they’re not grapes, but hopefully it’s just as satisfactory?” John had no idea how to work the presses, but Karen obviously had it figured out. He let her work the machines.

“It definitely will be! Just wait.” She grabbed his hand and placed it on a crank. “Turn that, and I’ll push the olives. If we work as a team we can get more done.”

John started to crank.

~

Laura had pulled herself back together by the afternoon. At least mostly. She didn’t fight for the remote. She just sat and watched whatever was on. Lucy was wailing around in a nervous daze, and Anna was just being quiet. The only people who seemed calm were Sarah and Emily. Sherlock was exhausted, though, and rapidly running out of concentration and energy. He really need more than a night and few hours to make up for his loss of sleep.

And nothing was going on. At all. Everyone was just worried about whether or not they were going home.

All Sherlock had to do was worry about what he was going to do with John in London. And he had a whole week to worry about that and the churning emotions in his stomach. He didn’t have the energy to right now.

In fact, right now? A nap sounded like the best decision he ever made.

~

John dropped Karen off with a bottle of homemade olive oil and a kiss on the cheek. It had been a really good date. Most of them were, now, though. Most. He wasn’t entirely sure he knew what he was doing, but he was pretty sure that he had his decisions made.

He mostly just hoped that no one was too broken-hearted. He was making tough choices. But he knew they only got worse from here. He had three eliminations and two weeks to choose a winner. And he wasn’t entirely ready yet.

He kind of knew. But then again, he didn’t. And next week was supposed to be a big deciding factor.

Hopefully it turned out well, because John was starting to get sick with worry. Literally. Again.

Physical side effects of emotional distress. Great. Just what he needed. Even more pressure. Because dealing with this many relationships wasn’t hard enough. Now he also had to find a way to mitigate his stress.

Maybe he should ask Emily for mediation classes. He was told they helped.

~

The rose ceremony was hard. Rather than wait around talking to each woman, John made sure that they went straight to the roses. He didn’t want to make this last any longer than it needed to. It was going to hurt a few of them, and he could tell they were fraught with worry.

Anna was wringing her hands raw while Dave talked.

“Ladies, it’s been a very adventurous week in Rome, and a very important week. This week, John had to decide whose families he would be going to see, and who he would send home.” Dave seemed more solemn than usual. Perhaps because it was getting closer to the end. It was now serious business. “Sherlock, you’re safe. That leaves six of you remaining, and there are only three roses here. Half of you will be going home tonight.”

John swallowed hard. He really was cutting it close to the quick now. There was no second guessing.

“John.” Dave gestured at the plate. “When you’re ready.”

John grabbed the first rose, a little too quickly. He had made his choices. There was no deliberating, but he still felt terrified. At least the first choice would be easy.

“Sarah,” he said, breathing in deeply. Sarah glided over to him from her spot in line. He held out the rose. “Will you accept this rose?”

“Yes,” she answered with a confident smile and quick peck on his cheek. He could see Sherlock glaring at her like he was plotting murder. Writhing anger on the other man’s face was the last remnant of his pain. And it was furious anger. Seeing Sarah this close to Sherlock, seeing how visceral Sherlock’s reaction still was, brought the guilt welling back up in John. He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling guilty about that. At least Sherlock didn’t seem ready to leave or depressed anymore. He just didn’t like Sarah.

John supposed he couldn’t blame Sherlock for that.

“Karen,” John called next. Karen wasn’t a hard choice either. He really did want to meet her family. Maybe she wasn’t as close as Sherlock or Sarah, but she was a great person and great to talk to and John enjoyed spending time with her. He held out the rose as she approached. “Will you accept this rose?”

“Of course,” she said calmly. She gave him a hug before taking her flower back to the line.

That left Lucy, Emily, Laura, and Anna. And John knew which one he was closest to and got along with best. He did feel terrible for the other three, though. None of these girls deserved this.

“Laura,” he said with finality. Lucy’s eyes went wide with shock, and Anna crumpled. Emily just looked mildly surprised. They all watched as Laura gave John a watery smile and walked up to get her rose. “Will you accept this rose?”

“I will,” she answered softly. It was a strange look that she gave to the flower on her way back, but John wasn’t paying attention. Lucy had stomped up to him, seething mad.

“John Watson, you are a bastard.” Well, John wasn’t quite sure he deserved that, but fair enough. He definitely felt like a bastard. He knew Lucy was attached to him. It was obvious. But he was sure at this point he could reciprocate.

“I’m sorry, Lucy,” he said, trying to reach out and hug her.

Her knee connected with his crotch sharply. All he saw was her high heels as he crumpled around his surprised groin and watched her stomp away. Medical staff was there in an instant, asking if he was alright, which was embarrassing. Of course he was alright.

“Just my dignity,” John joked, straightening up feebly. “I’m okay.”

Anna had left during the commotion, but Emily came up to hug him goodbye. She wrapped her arms around him, gently.

“No hard feelings on my part,” she whispered. “Pick a good one, yeah?”

And then she floated away. Almost ethereal in that moment.

But really, John was just glad that she hadn’t kneed him too.

~

“What a bastard,” Lucy growled. “If he was going to dump me, he could have at least let me know. Jerk thinks he can pull my strings around? Not a chance.”

She wiped at her eyes violently, not really crying. Yet.

“Bastard. You bastard, John,” she whispered.

~

“I saw it coming,” Emily said, all her Zen still in place. “I could cry about it, but it’s not worth it. There are other guys, and honestly? John liked me, but not as much as he likes Sarah. Or Sherlock. And I can see that. I want him to be happy, but I also want me to be happy. I make it a point not to cry about things I see coming.”

She rubbed her temples and put her head down for a minute. Taking a deep breath, she looked up again.

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, though. I liked him a lot. I wish he’d gotten to meet my family.”

~

“I don’t know what went wrong,” Anna sobbed. “I don’t know, I don’t want to know, I just want to go home.”

Tears were rolling down her face, ungracefully, not helping her red and puffy eyes.

~

John Watson felt good about the next week and crappy about the current one. He knew he would. And he could go on and on about how those women didn’t deserve to be treated like that. But really, he had had to make choices. So he picked the three women he liked the most. And Sherlock. Sherlock who confused him and who made him break rules and not feel bad about it. John couldn’t even feel guilty about sneaking off to his room and getting far too physical with him. No guilt even about sitting there, watching him sleep, making sure he wasn’t hurting anymore. The only thing he _really_ felt guilty about was not being able to console him more. And hurting him in the first place. There was barely a twinge for sneaking off when the other girls were still there.

And that worried him.

He only had one more week of dates before the overnight dates. The part where the producers had told him to make sure he wanted to sleep with whoever he kept. And he had to meet their parents and talk to them like he wasn’t evaluating whether or not he could get through sex with three different people in the span of three days.

He wasn’t sure he could. But he couldn’t worry about it now. All he could do was wonder if everyone would forgive him for not being able to go through with it. They might have to, at this rate.

And now he had to meet parents and figure out who he wanted for in-laws. Great. Because he was really thinking about in-laws at this stage. He just wanted the next few weeks to go by quickly.

He hoped he made the right decision when it came time.

For the present moment the right decision was to keep the ice pack firmly glued to his crotch, and try not to die of embarrassment. At least there’d been some silver lining to this particularly painful raincloud. It came in the form of a note shoved under the door when he got in.

_I’ve had angry clients, so I feel your pain._

_Sorry,_

_Sherlock_

  


* * *

[1] ‘Ah, Chi Mi Dice Mai’ is part of Mozart’s _Don Giovanni_ , and the line ‘Gli vo’ cavare il cor’ roughly translates to ‘I will rip his heart out.’


	8. Episode Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Eight - Hometowns
> 
> As a note, this fic was written long before series three (which I still haven't seen), so I apologize for any inconsistencies with canon!

Episode Eight

 

It was odd to step foot in London after so long abroad. John couldn’t deny that fact. He knew the airport, he knew the streets they were driving through, but it still felt strange. It wasn’t really like coming home. It was more like coming back to a house he had moved out of several years ago. It was the same familiarity and surreality as if someone had snuck in and redecorated a place he once owned.

He was glad to know that all he had to do this week was meet people. The women — and Sherlock — were each in charge of planning their own dates. He got to spend tonight in his comfortable hotel room, and one day with each of them. Meet their families, remind himself of which three he liked the most and could see himself marrying.

Oh God. Marrying. Every time that thought circled back around John’s calm disappeared. He still wasn’t sure how he was going to manage that looming culmination to the show. And honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d get the time to think about managing it. Everything was going so quickly.

And he could safely say that he loved Sherlock. But he could _also_ safely say that he loved Sarah. It was a different kind of love, which complicated things a lot. Sarah was the kind of love he had always wished for — the perfect girlfriend. Sherlock was something completely different and unique, something he’d never expected to want. The two of them were tearing him in completely different directions. He loved them both, there was no question, but the way he felt about Sherlock was not at all like how he felt about Sarah. Or vice versa. And at the same time he was doing his best not to rule out Karen or Laura. Laura was fun and energetic and really genuinely interesting; he had a lot of fun with her and it was always easy to spend time with her. Karen, on the other hand, was smart and witty and just the right kind of blunt. There were so many good things about both of them, even if he wasn’t as close to them as Sherlock and Sarah. It was really a lot to think about, and the fewer people there were to date, the more he cared about the ones who were still there.

Which was his only starting point on this problem. He had to decide who he would propose to, and the best place to start was with his feelings. His very confused feelings.

He sensed he would be tackling this issue repeatedly over the next few days, which wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

~

 Mrs Hudson had grabbed him in a hug as soon as he walked in the door. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of it. It was always awkward to touch the woman, but not disgusting. He suffered through the awkwardness because he genuinely liked her. She was a good woman. If nosy.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” she said as she let go. He noted the tears in her eyes with confusion. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Perfectly, Mrs Hudson. A bit nervous.” He pulled away and started up the stairs.

“Nervous?” she asked, following after him, but slower. “About what?”

“This hometown date, or whatever it is they call it. I have to get the apartment presentable. I don’t want to look like a slob on national television.” Sherlock didn’t even bother to take off his coat; he was too preoccupied by what it would take to accomplish such a lofty goal. Apparently weeks of hotels and living out of a suitcase had made him forget how much stuff he had, and his habit of throwing it all over his flat. He grabbed a stack of papers and started to examine it. Where was he going to file casework? Suddenly the chair in the living room didn’t seem like a good place for sensitive information.

“You mean you’re still in the running?” Mrs Hudson looked shocked as she stepped into the flat just behind him, which Sherlock couldn’t really blame her for. But he still felt a bit insulted.

“Yes, and John will be here in four days, and I need to prepare.” He spun around and gave her a raised eyebrow. “You don’t have objections to cameras in the house, do you?”

“Oh, _Sherlock_.” Mrs Hudson’s grin was a big as the Cheshire cat’s and that’s all Sherlock saw before the woman threw her arms around his chest with a thud. For a moment he couldn’t even react, and he only offered her a gentle pat with his otherwise distant arms. He hadn’t really expected that particular reaction, and really hoped that this wouldn’t mean she would be hugging more often now. Or so vehemently. After a second she backed away again. “That’s absolutely wonderful! Of course I don’t mind cameras.”

“Well, at least _you_ don’t,” Sherlock sighed, beginning to sort some of his uncontrollable papers. “I could do without them.”

“He must be quite the charmer, to get you to suffer through such awful trials, all that gallivanting around Europe and horrible, horrible luxury hotels,” she said with a cheeky jab and bustled over to Sherlock’s kitchen — making a cup of tea, presumably.

“I suppose.” Sherlock frowned. He didn’t like where this was heading.

“Oh, come now. You don’t show interest in people very often. What’s he like that’s got you so head over heels?”

Sherlock shot a glance at the figure pouring water in the kettle, frowning. No, he definitely did not want to have this conversation. That one little phrase did little to describe the amount of pain he’d just endured and was still a bit raw from. Didn’t seem to capture the depth of feelings involved, or how vulnerable he suddenly seemed. Didn’t really capture the fear just lurking below the surface that he was desperately trying not to think about. At least this week.

And how was he supposed to quantify John? Was he supposed to go with the traditional ‘oh, he’s _gorgeous_ ’ vapid cooing? Or an honest comment on why he was in love with John Watson? He wasn’t sure he could express that.

“I don’t show interest in anyone.”

“So what’s special about him?” she insisted. Sherlock made the split-second decision to go with honesty. If only to clarify it for himself.

“John is...a good person.” Mrs Hudson turned at those words, leaving the kettle to boil, her eyes scrutinizing Sherlock’s face. “And that’s a rare trait. He’s honest, and fair, and doesn’t seem to have any ulterior motives. He’s honestly not like anyone I’ve met. Ever before.” He wasn’t looking towards the kitchen anymore, just losing himself in the words. “And he seems to really care more than I’ve ever seen before. I’m not sure what else to say.”

That felt strange to admit but there it was. And Sherlock was sure he stumbled with his words and articulated things badly, but he smiled anyway because all that was true...and he also knew that John loved him too.

Mrs Hudson matched his smile with a soft, sweet one of her own. “You’re really enamoured.”

Ugh. That word made Sherlock cringe. But she was right. “If we have to use that word.”

He shook his head and picked up a book on chemistry, distracting himself.

“Well, then I’ll help you clean, and we’ll make sure this is perfect, don’t you worry,” she cheered. “We’ll start by getting rid of that skull.”

Sherlock glanced at Yorick.

They would be having that argument later.

~

John was terrified when he went to see Sarah the next morning. He had no idea what to expect and he really did want to make a good impression on her family. This was an important step in this particular relationship. And he had decided, if nothing else, that he was going to treat each relationship like it existed separately from the production. He had to, at this point, or he would lose his sanity. He _had_ to compare them on some level, because he still had to make decisions and he simply couldn’t live like this for much longer. But at least for now he had to try to separate and analyze the emotions he had for them, both for his sake and theirs. If he didn’t break someone else’s heart, his own would crack under pressure.

John _would_ enjoy these dates. He _would_ treat these relationships like the individual bonds they were. And even though he had to compare them, he was going to justify each decision based on who they were as people — not by ranking them or treating them like a harem. He hoped they could understand that.

Because he wasn’t sure if he could forgive himself if they couldn’t.

Sarah was waiting for him at an unsuspecting street corner. He didn’t see any particularly notable tourist attractions or anything overly exciting. And somehow, that was a good thing. He didn’t really want to go see Big Ben or Westminster Abbey right now.

John kissed her after he got out of the car. His stomach cringed with guilt before he forced it down. Sarah was only part of the reason Sherlock had been upset — he was _not_ going to let something he’d mostly resolved taint this date. It wasn’t fair to Sarah.

“Hello, again,” she said, smiling after his greeting. John was so happy to see that smile. It was soothing, and it reaffirmed why he was here. He was here to further his amazing relationship with this beautiful, wonderful woman.

“It’s good to be back,” John said, truthfully. It suddenly felt great to be in London. “How have you been?”

“Very good,” Sarah replied, certainly looking like it. “Better now that you’re here.”

“It’s better with you here, too.” John smiled. Despite the cheesiness, it felt sincere. Sarah’s good cheer was catching, the right kind of lighthearted. “It’s been a long week.”

“It definitely has,” she sighed. “I didn’t realize how much energy could go into planning a single afternoon.”

John laughed — his sentiments exactly. “I’m sure you put together something great.”

“Well, you said that you haven’t been to London in a while, what with the war and everything, I thought maybe I could reintroduce you to the city. We can walk around and just enjoy seeing everything. And then we’ll go see my parents for dinner.”

That was...incredibly sweet. Really thoughtful, actually. John had mentioned his trepidation several weeks ago, the fact that Sarah not only remembered, but also tried to compensate for it was incredibly endearing. This was why he loved her.

“That sounds amazing,” he happily proclaimed. It really did. “But you lead the way.”

“Of course,” she agreed, taking his hand. “We wouldn’t want you to get lost, would we?”

John was a touch embarrassed about how real of a possibility that was.

~

Sherlock knew he had to get the flat...orderly. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to call it clean, or decluttered, or any of those other model-of-cleanliness type words. He had moved most of his papers into his bedroom and shut the door. The door which was not going to open again until long after the cameras were gone. He didn’t really sleep in there anyway. The couch served just as well.

But the kitchen was another matter. He had tried to put the vinegar and chemical bottles somewhere they wouldn’t be touched. Most of his body parts had been removed from the fridge and returned to whatever establishment had loaned them — mostly the morgue and the hospital. Not always legally.

The ones that were his to keep were packaged and shoved unceremoniously into the freezer. It was the best way to hide them, that he could think of. After all, it was highly unlikely that a tour of his flat would involve a close inspection of frozen food or whatever other people used the freezer for.

But the dishes. The chemistry set. The strange mold growing on the sink he tried not to use. The utter lack of any cleaning supplies. He wasn’t really sure what to do about any of these things, much less all of them combined to work against him. He had solicited Mrs Hudson, and she had agreed to help — if he got rid of anything that either came from a living body or could potentially harm her. And moved the chemistry set. And the skull.

Which was a pity. He really liked the skull.

His plan of action right now was to put whatever would offend Mrs Hudson in the top cupboards and the freezer, and take his chemistry set and put it on his recently cleared desk. It wasn’t going in his bedroom. He wanted to run a few experiments in the days before John got to visit him and that room had basically turned into a black pit from which nothing returned. Colloquially: a disaster.

If he had believed in a higher power, he would probably be begging them for help right now. As it was, he was hoping John would be alright with ‘good enough’. Sherlock figured there was no point in kidding himself; he would never be perfectly neat, and he would probably always have a pile of papers and body parts somewhere, even if John ended up living with him. That thought was unsettling, and it wasn’t because it wasn’t what he wanted. It was because of how unlikely it was that it was going to happen. He needed to not even consider it right now — however tempting it was to hope for a favourable outcome once in his life.

He needed to be concerned with hoping that John didn’t do the unthinkable and open the freezer. That might be bad.

~

Their walk started out beside the Thames, wind blowing in their faces and the murky water churning below them. It was surprisingly quiet and sunny, with few enough people out and about. Which was just what they needed. It felt like it had been a long time since he talked with Sarah, and their conversation was reflecting that. Easy but needy, like they couldn’t get enough words out.

“If we get married,” Sarah said with a laugh, her hair brushing across her face in the breeze, “I’ll remember to take you out walking again. You seem to like it.”

John ignored the fear that threatened to well up at the word ‘married’. His mind was busy with other — arguably more important — things. Like Sarah’s hand in his.

“I’d like that,” John replied with a smile. “If we get married, I’d love to go walking again.”

Sarah laughed brightly. “With the kids, of course?”

“Of course,” John joked back. “Not that I’d know what to do with kids. It’s not my area of expertise, exactly.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d be great with them,” Sarah retorted with a good-natured elbow. “All you really have to do is be patient and children will like you.”

“You sound like you have experience.”

“A bit.” Her expression fell, and John worried he’d said something wrong for that harsh minute. “I worked in a children’s hospital for a while when I was in school. It was depressing sometimes, but it taught me a lot about kids. They’re really strong. And they can really make you smile on a bad day.”

“You must have been a really wonderful nurse for them,” John said wistfully. “And I’m sure you’ll make a good mother.”

“I hope so,” Sarah replied, her smile coming back. “I’d like to have a couple. Not loads, per se, but one or two.”

“I wouldn’t mind one or two,” John agreed. This was all theoretical, of course. He didn’t have much experience with children and he had _no_ idea how to raise one. Not really, anyway. But in theory? He wouldn’t mind one or two. So long as they weren’t imminent at this very moment. “Kids get all the best holidays anyway.”

“You’d be looking forward to Disneyland?” she giggled.

“Well, maybe not Disneyland. Princesses and sing-a-longs?”

“Every girl does want to be a princess,” Sarah joked.

John broke away and made a flourishing bow, kissing her lightly on the hand

“Well, then, your highness,” he said with as much serious as he could muster, “let me show you to the gardens.”

“Lead on.” Sarah’s false regality didn’t last long, but it still warmed the afternoon.

~

Mrs Hudson smiled as she heard the crash and subsequent swearing from upstairs. Sherlock had been so incredibly lively since he’d been back. And not that terrifying, single-minded rush he got when he was working. He hadn’t cut her off with blathering about decapitated bodies or asked to borrow her chair to simulate a hanging. Instead, he was being productive — finishing experiments, cleaning the apartment, filing his casework. Filing his casework! She thought she’d _never_ see that day.

He’d even hung a picture over the bullet holes in the wall. It wasn’t exactly working, and she tried to convince him to take it down (the painting he’d chosen was far worse of an eyesore than the mess he’d already made, in her opinion) but he had actually done it. He even put away the skull.

Reluctantly. And with a lot of argument. But he _had_ put it away. She counted that as a small victory.

He looked healthier too. The dark circles around his eyes were fading. He had some colour in those ghostly pale cheeks of his. In fact, when he was active he almost glowed. Like a paragon of health. _Sherlock_. A paragon of health. She thought she might faint at the sight.

He wasn’t even using those Godforsaken nicotine patches, as far as she could tell. He didn’t have those ups and downs and the mood swings to go with them. There was a light in his eyes that didn’t fade when the drugs or caffeine or nicotine or casework wore off. It was just there. Because, somehow, Sherlock Holmes was enjoying living life just the ordinary way it was.

Well, almost ordinary. Sherlock didn’t have a normal bone in his body, but this was about as close as he’d get. No depressions, no mood swings. Honestly, she hadn’t known he could be so close to stable.

And yes, he was still Sherlock. He was insulting people and throwing things when he got frustrated and playing the violin at any time, day or night. Actually, as soon as he ran out of things to do or energy for the day, he’d languish around playing for an hour or so. Whether that hour was at four in the morning or at two in the afternoon. But that was Sherlock for you.

Her conclusion? This John fellow was good for him.

There were so many improvements. Who knew that love could be so good for him? She always figured he was happy being alone. But now he seemed so much happier.

He smiled more. He played happier music. He tried to listen to other people before he called them idiots. And he asked for help.

            “Mrs Hudson!” The scream came just as she was suspecting it would. “Bring your vacuum!”

            A pause. Then. “Please!”

            He even said _please_. Wasn’t that novel? He was still pretty brusque and condescending, with no regard to other people’s time, but again, he was trying.

            She hoped against hope that this fellow would stay with him. Sherlock needed this kind of influence. This kind of stability. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if she had to help him when the only man he’d ever loved left him for someone else.

~

Sarah was clinging to his hand. Not just holding it, but holding it like it was a lifeline. They had bought some gelato and settled down on a park bench to watch the flow of people. And it had been wonderful. Every second of walking around the city with Sarah was amazing. They looked at shops. They saw the markets. They made small talk easily and happily. The fact that she was holding his hand so tightly was worrying.

So was the fact that she kept trying to say something. Normally, silences with Sarah were comfortable. Natural. Like both of them didn’t have to say anything. Conversation wasn’t a necessity for them, just a benefit. And now she kept clearing her throat. And saying ‘Ah.’

John’s concern gave into his curiosity. He squeezed her hand back.

“Sarah?” he asked quietly. “What’s the matter?”

She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, forehead sitting heavily on the top of his joint. “I’m afraid of making things awkward.”

“Why?” John couldn’t really fathom why she’d be worried. There was nothing she could say to make it awkward. “You’re not going to tell me that you killed someone, are you?”

Sherlock’s sense of humour was starting to rub off on him. Sarah didn’t notice, though. She just lifted her head with a smile and a laugh.

“No, of course not. I just wanted to say that I love you, but I know you can’t say it back, and I’m not sure if that would make you uncomfortable.”

The confession didn’t really come as a surprise, since she’d hinted at it a couple of weeks before, but it still made him happy. “There is no way I would be uncomfortable with that.”

“Good.” He really did love her smile. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners, and how her cheeks seemed so full. Like every muscle in her face was trying to express her happiness. It always made John want to smile back. So he did.

Her grip loosened a bit from his hand, as she stood up, pulling him with her. John was happy to follow.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go introduce you to my parents.”

~

“Well, he knows for sure now,” Sarah said happily. “I have told him, and he knows. And I think he feels the same way, even if he can’t say it. I just hope he doesn’t change his mind when he meets my family.”

~

She didn’t have a reason to be afraid. Sarah’s parents welcomed John into their home with open arms. Her father was an older gentleman, wearing a trim suit, probably just for the camera, and her mother was a sweet woman in an apron. John was surprised to see her brother there, though. A tall brown-haired man in a blazer and a t-shirt, his handshake was firm.

“Name’s Jacob,” he said cheerily. He looked a bit older than John. Maybe mid-thirties. “We’re glad to have you.”

“I’m glad to be here,” John returned, positive that a big dopey smile was on his face.

Looking around he saw a tidy little house, middle class, with family pictures on the walls. Sarah’s graduation. Jacob’s. A picture of the four of them at a picnic when the children were much younger. A picture of Jacob’s wedding. Sarah’s mother and father kissing — probably an anniversary picture. Family was obvious really important to them.

Which put a lot more pressure on John than he wanted to admit. Not coming from the closest knit family might be seen as a bit of a failing on his part. He was really just hoping that he could measure up to their standards.

Sarah’s parents shooed him over to the dining room table, where a full Christmas-esque dinner had been laid out. Sarah’s mother passed him some turkey.

“Have you been back in England long?” she asked, politely. John smiled at her across the round table.

“Ah, a couple months, really. And most of that has been spent with this whole Bachelor business.” He started to fill his plate. There was nothing like a good meal to end the day. “It feels kind of like a different world.”

Mrs Sawyer nodded, sagely. “It would be a big change. It must be nice to be out of that awful desert.”

“Yeah,” John said. Subject change time. He didn’t want to think about the war now. “You have a beautiful home. How long have you been here?”

“Oh, fifteen years now?” Mr Sawyer answered, calmly. He was rather reserved, though still friendly. John appreciated that. “It’s been a long while.”

“It’s good to have some place that you’ve settled into,” John replied, happy to keep the conversation going. “At least you’re comfortable in your home.”

“Yes, we definitely are,” Sarah said with a smile.

~

John was supposed to be talking with each of Sarah’s parents. But somehow he found himself talking to her brother instead. Jacob had taken his arm and pulled him off to the sitting room, with a big fake smile on his face.

“So,” the older man started, “how do you feel about Sarah?”

John sighed internally. He had known this was coming. Wasn’t this whole thing awkward enough without familial displeasure aimed his way?

“I really like her. A lot. Sarah’s a wonderful woman.” Honesty, he assumed, was the best policy. And really, he needed to let her family know he wasn’t trying to be a bad guy. “She’s caring, and beautiful, and she listens well. She makes me feel really comfortable, and it’s really easy to spend time with her.”

“Good,” Jacob said slowly. Not quite the reaction John had been expecting. He felt like he was being scrutinized. But somehow, not in a bad way. “I know you’ve got more than just her, but you seem like you really like her.”

“I do.” John couldn’t emphasize that enough.

“Well, good, because she likes you more than she lets on.” Jacob steepled his hands and leaned back in to the sofa. Thinking. “And honestly, that’s a good look on her. My sister hasn’t really had a real boyfriend for a few years. It’s kind of nice to see her in something serious.”

John wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. Jacob kept going after a moment.

“That’s not putting pressure on you,” he said, calmly. “I’m just saying. She’s had bad luck with boyfriends, and even if this doesn’t work for her it’s been a lot better than the past few years of crap dates. If I know her, it’s just what she needs to pull out of it.”

“I hope that, however this ends, Sarah isn’t hurt,” John said quietly, and honestly. He looked Jacob straight in the eyes. “She deserves a hell of a lot better than to be left feeling like crap with crap boyfriends.”

“I agree.” Jacob stood up, abruptly. “But more important is to hear it from you. If she’s got to play this game, at least the person pulling the strings can be a decent man.”

~

“I’m not sure what my brother said to him,” Sarah said, quieter than normal. The camera was obviously just in the front hall, not somewhere very private. “I really hope it wasn’t the ‘break her heart and I’ll kill you’ speech. John doesn’t deserve that kind of cliché.”

~`

The production had insisted on the next meeting, and he could already tell that he and her father really had nothing to say to each other. At all. What do you say to a man whose daughter was only one of four of your girlfriends? Well, three girlfriends and one boyfriend. Which, if Mr Sawyer had known about that tidbit, would probably make matters worse for John.

So they sat there. Until one of them thought of something to say.

“Treat my daughter well, and I’ll be happy with you,” Mr Sawyer said, in a drawn out tone, after a few minutes of silence. John was seeing the resemblance to Jacob already. “Don’t break her heart, boy. It would kill me to see her heartbroken.”

“I’ll do my best not to, sir,” John deferred. “I really don’t want to hurt her or anyone else.”

“I’ll admit I don’t much care about the rest of them.” Mr Sawyer didn’t frown. In fact, his expression seemed to lighten a little. “Just Sarah. She’s my little girl.”

“I’ll treat her well,” John acquiesced, not quite sure what he was promising.

“Mmm,” Mr Sawyer replied, promptly lapsing back into silence. John did his best to keep his sigh internal.

He could only hope her mother would be a little more forthcoming.

~

“Oh, she’s been so excited to bring you back here,” Mrs Sawyer said, cheerily. “It’s been all John-this and John-that, John is coming! She’s been so chipper. You really brightened her up.”

“Do you think so?” The dopey smile was back. John couldn’t help it.

“Of course I do. I’m her mother. I know these things.” Mrs Sawyer winked. “I know when my daughter fancies someone special.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m special,” John said with a nervous laugh. He forgot how much pressure a family could put on a new boyfriend. “I’m pretty ordinary.”

“Oh, don’t put yourself down. Anyone can see that Sarah doesn’t think that.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and patted lightly. “And that’s all that matters to me. You’re handsome, and you seem decent. She could definitely do worse.”

“Ah, thanks.” John wasn’t really comfortable with praise from a stranger. He didn’t know what to say, so he tried to change the subject to something Mrs Sawyer had already proven she could talk all night about. “How long did you say Sarah took dance lessons?”

~

By the time John got away from the family chatter — which is all it really was — he was tired again. Mr and Mrs Sawyer hadn’t been very enlightening. He was glad he had talked to Jacob, though. At least a sibling perspective had been insightful. He felt like he knew a little more about Sarah now, other than the fact that she had a model family.

Not that Mr and Mrs Sawyer weren’t lovely people. Any couple who could be so welcoming to a man who they had never met and who was essentially toying with their daughter’s heart had to be lovely people.

When Sarah grabbed his hand and lead him up the stairs, he didn’t protest. She pulled him into a girly bedroom — obviously her old room — and sat him on the bed before leaning in to kiss him.

“Thank you for coming, John,” she said softly, her mouth still close to his. He slid his hands along her waist.

“I’m glad I came,” he whispered back. Sarah was perfect. And this just reassured him of that fact. “It’s been a really wonderful day.”

“Good,” she sighed, her lips brushing against his. “You’ve been so amazing. I wanted to give you something wonderful.”

He closed the kiss. And felt her melt into him, lips opening for him, tongue pushing back against his. Her hands slid down his back, and he tightened his grip on her waist. She was a great kisser, and she knew exactly what she was doing. In a moment she had squirmed into his lap and threaded a hand into his hair, tender, and gentle, and _close_. Emotionally, and physically. Sarah was everywhere and wonderful and he could smell the soft scent of her shampoo and the light feeling of her hair against his shoulder.

It felt incredible. Heartbreakingly so. If this had been a normal relationship, it would have been just the right kind. The kind that lasted long into their future.

As it was, they pulled apart slowly, Sarah resting her forehead against his, eyes closed.

“Thank you, John,” she whispered, and slid off him, offering a hand for him to get up.

She walked him to the door.

~

That night, John felt alright for the first time in a long time. That had worked. He had enjoyed his date, and it had been a good day without too much guilt. Plus he had great memories of Sarah and him, and that fantastic kiss. There was a bit more security in that relationship, too.

Mind you, he was still worried about Karen, and Laura, and Sherlock. Somehow, not thinking about them made coming back to his lonely hotel room worse. Now he had double the worries to think about.

He could do it again, though. He could handle fretting on his own if it helped him get through these dates.

Though it probably meant he wasn’t going to sleep much. Hopefully no one minded if he drank far too much coffee.

~

“Cameras?” Lestrade asked, incredulous. “Why would there be cameras?”

Sherlock rubbed his head violently with his hand, eyes closed. Really? Lestrade really couldn’t figure out why there would be cameras? Why are people so idiotic?

“Look, I know you think everyone else is an idiot, but you’ve been gone for almost two months, and we haven’t heard a peep from you. Now you come back and say you’re filming for some sort of show?” Lestrade put his hands palms down on his desk. Sherlock fidgeted. Hadn’t Mycroft said he was going to tell the people at the Yard and save him the agony? As it was, this was getting more painful, because Lestrade in his ignorance was dragging this out.

Ah, so that was his brother’s real punishment. Touché, Mycroft.

“Yes. And I’d appreciate if I was allowed to bring cameras here for one day, so they can see my...employment.”

Lestrade didn’t bother to correct him. They both knew this wasn’t really a job. Not in any traditional sense. There were more important matters at hand.

“What show?” Lestrade’s curiosity was obviously killing him.

And right there, Sherlock felt himself go beet red. Sickly pale skin was a _curse_ and he hated it. Goddamn it.

“ _The Bachelor_ ,” he admitted reluctantly.

“That American dating show?” If Lestrade’s eyebrows went any higher, they’d pop off his face.

“There’s a UK version as well,” Sherlock stated solemnly, turning to examine a piece of paperwork on Lestrade’s desk, hoping his dignity could be saved.

“And you’re the Bachelor, are you?” Lestrade was standing, coming around the desk. “Didn’t think you were the type.”

Oh good god, really? Could he blush any more? Could Lestrade get any denser? Would someone _please_ put him out of his misery?

“I’m not.” Sherlock went with vague.

“Not what?” And of course, Lestrade kept barreling through his deflections. Sigh.

“The Bachelor.”

“Wha...” There. Right there. Sherlock watched as the facts clicked in Lestrade’s mind, his mouth going from a slight frown to a repressed and rather silly grin. It would have been more satisfying if it weren’t _embarrassing_. “I didn’t think they did gay couples.”

Oh _god_. “They don’t.”

“So it’s a girl? I wouldn’t have pegged you as in to girls.” Sherlock’s hand practically crashed into his forehead. He couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“What I am or am not ‘in to’ is none of your business, and it wasn’t _anyone_ before this stupid show, which was not exactly my chosen idea of entertainment.” His snapping didn’t even phase Lestrade. Agitated, Sherlock’s feet found themselves pacing rapidly around the office.

“So why were you there?” Lestrade’s grin never faded. And Sherlock’s blush was resurfacing again. _Why_ was he so goddamn pale? Couldn’t he keep just a little of his dignity for this one meeting?

“My brother ensured my participation.” That was the best he could offer. Mycroft bribed and threatened and basically kidnapped him to get him out there, but he wasn’t about to tell Lestrade that.

“And you didn’t leave.” Thank you, Detective Inspector Obvious.

“It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?” Lestrade’s grin just widened maddeningly at Sherlock’s nastiness.

“What’s your sweetheart’s name, then?” Lestrade asked without a snicker but with far too much glee. He twined his fingers and leaned back in his chair, obviously enjoying Sherlock’s inner turmoil.

“...John. His name is John.”

“I knew you weren’t in to girls.” Worse than gleeful, Lestrade’s smile was sweetly good-natured, happy for him. Sherlock would almost have preferred something less encouraging right now.

“Shut up, Lestrade.” His comeback was lame, but it was delivered with as much malice as he could muster. Lestrade’s ears must have burnt with all the vitriol in that sound wave.

He sat up, his grin lessening just a hair — not nearly enough to wipe it off his face. And then he asked.

“What’s he like?”

Sherlock stopped, looked at Lestrade’s earnest face, took a deep breath, and answered.

“He’s honest and loyal and friendly and far too good for me, if you must know. And he’s not boring, like some people I could think of.” He shot a look at Lestrade. “I’d rather like him to enjoy his tour of my pseudo employment, so _please_ , if you could be so kind, stop harassing me about details and tell me whether or not I can bring in a few cameras for an hour or two and let me be on my way.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up again at the word ‘please’. Sherlock scowled. He could be polite. He just wasn’t inclined to it. “I think I can arrange that.”

A weight lifted from his chest for a moment. “Thank you.”

“But just wait until the team hears that you’re on _The Bachelor_. They’re going to have a field day.”

Sherlock was beginning to wonder if it really was possible to die of embarrassment.

~

Sherlock had swept out of his office in a huff that left Lestrade with just a small smile. He looked happy. Well, embarrassed but pleasant. Which was still a far more positive emotion than the normal polar opposites of ‘nasty’ or ‘maniacally gleeful’. In fact, Lestrade was pretty positive he hadn’t ever heard Sherlock ask for something quite that nicely. Oh, sure he demanded things all the time and coldly requested things once in a while. But asking — with a ‘please’ even! — was new.

This John fellow must be quite the _tour de force_ to put a change in Sherlock. Even a slight one. And it was good for him. Honestly, Lestrade had been watching Sherlock Holmes slowly self-destruct for far too many years. Any upturn was a great improvement — one he hoped would last.

He didn’t know who could be romantically involved with Sherlock — there was far too much room for conflict. But he would rather hope against hope that this faceless John knew exactly what he was getting in to, and liked Sherlock as much as Sherlock clearly liked him, than think about the crash that might happen after a rejection.

The wreckage after that might be the end of him. And no matter what animosity there occasionally was between them, Lestrade never wanted to see that day come.

~

The car dropped John off at Marble Arch the next day. Laura was sitting quietly beneath the monument, waiting for him. She smiled brightly when he got there, and squeezed him in a tight hug.

“John,” she gasped. John hugged her back. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” John said, happily. It was nice to see Laura one-on-one. This was her first non-group date, but John could still say he had made the right choice in keeping her. She was agreeable, and energetic, and very easy to talk to. Spending time with Laura was going to be fun.

“Follow me?” She grabbed his hand and pulled him down the street towards a brown brick building.

“Where are we going?” John was curious. He wasn’t quite sure what she had planned.

“Well, you’ve been showing us bits of your life,” she said, calmly, “so I wanted to show you a part of mine.”

They came up in front of the London School of Fashion and Design.

“This is where I’m studying right now. I’m taking design.” She tugged him through the door. “Let me show you around?”

~

“I had some serious doubts about how well John and I worked together, just a couple days ago,” Laura admitted. “It was hard. I thought I was going to have to leave, or that maybe John hadn’t made the right decision. I’m glad we went home this week. I talked to my mum, and she really helped rationalize things for me. I don’t feel so insecure anymore. And I’m really happy about it. I think I can do this. Maybe _we_ can do this.”

~

Standing in a room full of mannequins was almost eerie. John had three young women and a man draping fabric across his shoulders and sketching furiously. Laura was talking with a few of them.

“I think the blue looks best with his eyes,” the girl called Samantha said.

“Navy or royal? We had two of them up there.” Laura was sketching on a pad while she talked. Eliza was measuring around his chest.

“Definitely the navy!” Suzanne piped in. She was hovering just behind Laura, and making notes and suggestions on her design. “It’s a bit more sophisticated.”

“I totally agree,” Laura replied.

John felt a hand slide along his shoulders, with a measuring tape trailing behind it. Chaz was measuring his shoulder width and around his arms.

“You have some incredible shoulders,” he half-purred, with a joking edge to his tone. “Mm, Laura has found herself someone fine.”

Chaz honestly couldn’t have been more flamboyant if he tried. John wondered if there was anything more stereotypical than a flamboyant gay man in the fashion industry, but regardless, Chaz seemed nice. And he was definitely efficient. It only took him a minute to finish with measurements and check Laura’s sketch.

“Are we really going with pintucked French cuffs?” he asked, loudly. Laura smiled up at him.

“No, we aren’t. We’re going with very thin lines of embroidery. The machines can handle it quickly enough.” She passed the sketch on to him and he pulled out some heavy paper.

“Matching collar?”

“Matching collar,” Laura confirmed. “Can you handle it?”

Chaz laughed and tossed a hand out. “Girl, I can handle everything you’ve got. Throw it at me, baby.”

Laura laughed, brightly. John was shocked at how comfortable she seemed. This was obviously where she belonged. And he couldn’t help but feel privileged to be there.

“Oh, you can’t handle _this_ , Chaz. But I’m taking John for a walk. How long ‘til it’s finished?”

Samantha had already laid out the navy blue silk on a cutting table, and began prepping the sewing machine. She answered. “You give us two hours and we’ll have it done.”

“I’m giving you three, then,” Laura replied, grabbing John and pulling him towards the hall. She looked at him conspiratorially. “Always give a designer more time than they think they need. Especially these two.”

~

Mrs Hudson came in with a broom and a bottle of cleaner. She gave him a disapproving look.

“I thought you had gotten rid of the skull, Sherlock.” Bah. The old woman was only observant when it was convenient for her.

“I did.”

“And you’ll get rid of it again?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, grabbing her shoulders and spinning her away from the offending object. He was also blatantly lying. “But first we have sink mold to get rid of.”

Mrs Hudson obviously hadn’t wanted that eyeful of disgusting mold residue. Sherlock hadn’t either to be honest, but it was there, and he was damn well going to clean it.

“Sherlock, so help me God, if you move out without cleaning this place entirely with bleach, I _will_ sue you for the damages. Just so we’re clear.” Mrs Hudson looked horrified. “What even _caused_ this?”

Her face contorted upon further examination of the greenish, yellowish, reddish patch of _something_ climbing out of the drain and up the sides of the sink.

It was hilarious.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that.” Sherlock wasn’t moving any time soon. He would _never_ find such an accommodating landlady again. “I’ll be sure to leave the place spotless for the next tenant.” Another blatant lie. Truth was the next tenant would probably be moving in after his cold, dead body was on the way out. Hence, freeing him of any inconvenient cleaning obligations.

She sighed heavily. “Well, let’s get to work, then. Only two more days before your beau shows up.”

“I wouldn’t call him my beau,” Sherlock retorted, very carefully putting on some rubber gloves. His distaste for the ugly, oversized gloves was put second to his need for caustic cleaners.

“I think beau is a perfect word for your future fiancé,” Mrs Hudson prodded. “Your tall, dark, and handsome suitor.”

Sherlock smiled. “He’s blond and shorter than I am. But I’ll agree with handsome.”

“Oh, high praise!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed with a giggle. “You really must love him.”

Sherlock paused, his smile warming his face.

“I do. Oddly enough.” It was strange saying those words out loud and with someone else present. But it was the truth and it wasn’t like he was hiding it.

For a moment, he was lost in his thoughts. Lost in John. Lost in saying in the power of those words yet again and still meaning them. And when he came back, Mrs Hudson was staring at his expression, tears almost in her eye.

“What?”

“It’s just so good to see you finally happy. He better treat you right or I’m going to come after him with a broom.”

Sherlock smiled, not as cheerful as a minute ago. “I hope you never have to.”

Mrs Hudson frowned, worry seeping in to her voice. “I hope not too.”

~

Being shown around Laura’s school was fun. She took him to her classes and had him meet her friends and her favourite teachers and showed him some of her design work. She was good. And it felt really natural to meet all of these people. Everything she did was seamless and bubbly. To say the least, she was a very upbeat person. John liked it.

But when he saw his shirt in person, he was shocked. It was beautiful. Soft as butter silk, delicate and subtle embroidery, and an absolutely perfect fit.

“Damn,” Chaz said loudly when John stepped out of the fitting room. “We are _good_.”

John had to agree. This was the nicest clothing article he had ever owned.

“Are you sure this is alright?” he asked, with a bit of trepidation. He really didn’t deserve anything this nice.

“Yes, and you better wear it proudly,” Samantha said emphatically. “We worked hard and you look fabulous.”

“You can wear it to dinner,” Laura said. “Mum will love it.”

~

They arrived at the little three bedroom apartment just a bit before supper. The dining room table was set nicely and all three of Laura’s family members were waiting. Her mother gave John a hug and a kiss on the cheek as he walked in the door.

“Look at this!” she exclaimed. “How did you pick up such a handsome man, Laura?”

Laura blushed a bit, but she looked proud. John was sure he was blushing furiously.

“Your daughter is lovely, too,” John replied. “And so are you, Mrs Jameson.”

“Rhonda, love,” she said, ushering him in. “And my father’s name is Charles, but you might have to speak up a bit when you talk to him.”

“Is this the boy?” Charles said loudly from the couch. He stood up slowly and made his way over to John. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, sir,” John said, shaking hands firmly. After a second he was grabbed by the shoulders from behind.

“You’re John?” a high-pitched voice shrieked, just a bit too close. “Oh my God, I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Char, calm down.” Laura made her let go, and John turned around to see a late teen-aged girl with bright pink nail polish and matching clothes. “John, this is my sister Charlene.”

“Nice to meet you,” John said. She beamed at him.

“That’s one of Laura’s, isn’t it?” she asked, pointing at his shirt. “It suits you perfectly.”

“Thank you,” John said with a slow smile. “It’s amazing how quickly she can make something so beautiful.”

“It really is,” Rhonda added. “It looks lovely on you, John. Are you hungry at all?”

“Definitely.” If he was honest, he was starving. They were lucky his stomach wasn’t growling.

“Good. I made a ton of food. Let’s get started.”

~

“They love him, as expected,” Laura laughed. “Oh gosh, this is so great. John fits right in. It really does feel like he’s always been a friend.”

~

“You’re going to love her,” Charlene said loudly to him, when she talked to him. “She’s the best person I know, and she’s just a great sister. So take care of her?”

“Of course,” John reassured her. “She’s wonderful. I always have a good time with Laura.”

“You always will,” Charlene said with a sigh. “You don’t have a younger brother, do you? I could use someone like you.”

John laughed.

~

“Well, it’s about time.” Charles sighed heavily. “I love that girl. I’ve been helping raise her since her father passed away.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” John said, not sure what to say to that. Her father had died? “That must have been hard on her.”

Charles nodded. “It was. But that was years ago. She was only six at the time. And I think we did a good job at it, Rhonda and I. My daughter has always been a trooper. She coped with her husband passing and her daughters’ grieving and didn’t miss a beat. We’re all pretty close because of her.”

“I don’t doubt it. That’s a really admirable woman.”

Charles smiled. “I raised her well, I guess. She turned out right. And Laura did too.”

“She certainly did.” John couldn’t help but agree.

~

John sat down heavily across from Rhonda. The woman sighed, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“She had some doubts, you know,” she said, raw honesty in her voice. “She wasn’t sure you were the one. And it wasn’t because she didn’t like you, just so we’re clear. She maybe likes you a bit too much.”

“I like her a lot too,” John said, honest and calm. He wasn’t sure where this was going. “Just meeting you and her friends, and seeing her lifestyle, I feel like part of her life.”

“Good,” Rhonda sighed. “Because she feels like part of yours. And she loves you, whether she says it or not.” Her mother hesitated for a moment, obviously thinking about saying more and deciding against it. “She talks about you like you’re already part of the family.”

“You all are so close,” John said softly. “I’m flattered. There’s nothing that could make me happier.”

He meant it. He didn’t know what was going through Laura’s head. He could only imagine how hard it must be to struggle with this concept and their harem-esque relationships. He couldn’t blame her for not being sure. But he was utterly flattered that she still thought of him like family. He liked her family. And he was happy to be part of it, even for a short amount of time.

“Just be gentle with her, alright?” Rhonda said, solemnly. “She’s a bit nervous right now, and she doesn’t really have the same kind of support when she’s away.”

“I’ll be good to her,” John said. And he would. Hopefully he wouldn’t break her heart.

~

Laura stood with him outside in the hallway, saying their goodbyes. Her eyes were shining with half-tears.

“I’m so glad I got to show you my home,” she said, hugging him tightly and briefly. “Today was perfect.”

“It was,” John agreed. He had really enjoyed his time with Laura. It was great.

“Promise me something?” She looked a touch shy.

“Sure.”

“Come back and see me? Regardless of what happens between us.” She looked so hopeful. “You just...it feels like you’ve always been part of my life. Even if we don’t end up together, I want you to come back once in a while and visit.”

John was touched. She was so honest. And he really did feel like he was her friend, first and foremost. And he couldn’t say no when she asked him like that.

He gently leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. She held the kiss, wordless, a soft smile lingering on her lips.

“It’s a promise,” John said, quietly.

~

“I can definitely see him here. Especially after family dinner, and taking him to see school and meeting my friends. I want him to be here.” Laura smiled, butterflies floating in her stomach. “I can picture his place in my life. Even if we don’t make it to the end, I hope he keeps his promise.”

~

John laid himself in bed and took a deep breath. His new shirt was hanging in the closet, very neatly pressed and careful cared for. It was gorgeous. And he was really just touched with the whole date. Everything she had done and taken him to see had been so personal and so carefully picked out that he felt really close to her. Like he knew an entirely new Laura.

And he liked it.

And he had really loved Sarah’s date. And he was excited for Karen’s tomorrow, and _then_ he got to see Sherlock.

And he missed Sherlock. These dates had been amazing. But he had seen Sarah recently, and Laura, and he hadn’t seen Sherlock in over a week now. And he felt guilty about that and lonely. Not lonely as in ‘alone’ but lonely in the sense that he wanted to talk specifically to Sherlock. Because he had a lot to talk to Sherlock about — he was still reeling a little from the rollercoaster of last week. He wanted to talk about that and meet the one family that might surprise him.

But he also felt guilty about that, and still remembered being told that Laura was fragile and knowing he couldn’t promise to not break her heart.

He hoped she’d still want him to visit if things really did go badly between them.

~

“John!” Karen yelled from her perch on the brick wall. Behind her was a huge field covered in rows and rows of grapes. John meandered up to her, feeling a bit tired, but smiling like a fool. Again.

“Take a look at this,” Karen said pulling him up on the short wall, and pointing. “We make one every year, as a tourist attraction.”

In front of him was a short, trellised maze. It only took up a square that was about ten metres by ten metres, but it was complex enough to provide a challenge. Grapevines covered the trellises, blending everything together in a knot. John thought he knew what they were about to do.

“A maze?” he asked, anyway. It didn’t hurt to humour her.

“A race,” she corrected immediately. Oh no. “You versus me. I wasn’t around when they constructed the maze this year. My dad supervised. So we’re on equal footing.”

“Well, as long as we’re even,” John said jokingly. He didn’t really care if she had an advantage. “How are we going to do this?”

“Stop watch,” Karen said, dangling the item in front of him. She leaned over and pecked him on the lips. “And it’s small enough that we can talk over the bushes. If you want to catch up.”

“Of course I do.” John did. It was nice to talk to Karen, and he had missed her. “What have you been doing for the past week?”

She led him toward the start of the maze and sent him in. The trellises were only about waist high, so it was easy to talk to her still.

“Well, Dad had a bit of a breakdown when I got home. I guess he missed me a lot. He’s gotten used to not having to do much work for the vineyard anymore. So, it’s been kind of emotional.”

“I bet.” John turned left and rapidly met with a dead end. Backtracking. “It’s probably hard to be away from your parents when you’re so close to them.”

“It is.” He almost couldn’t hear her sigh. He was halfway across the maze by this point. Fortunately for him, it wasn’t much of a challenge. “But it’s harder for Dad. He depends on me.”

John let the silence lapse for a moment. “Well, I’m glad you got to visit him again.”

Right turn, clear path forwards. He was getting close.

“So am I,” Karen said, cheerily. “And I’m glad you’re going to meet him. And my mother. She’ll be here too.”

“Sounds exciting,” John said breathless, dashing towards the exit. Almost there. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

“Time!” Karen called, rushing to meet him at the exit. “Four minutes, seventeen seconds. Not bad.”

John laughed. It wasn’t a big maze.

“Your turn?” he asked. She passed the stopwatch over.

~

“ _The Bachelor_?” Angelo said with incredulity. “You’re in love?”

“I suppose you could say that,” Sherlock said with a sigh. He was still finding it difficult to not be embarrassed. Admitting what he used to consider a weakness to other people wasn’t really part of his modus operandi. Even if no one else, other than Mycroft maybe, would consider loving someone a weakness. Something in him still protested vocalizing anything that would fall into the soft and/or squishy end of the emotional spectrum and he was trying to get used to it.

Angelo’s face lit up immediately.

“So, who is this Bachelor? Is he a good man? Does he treat you right?” Angelo was getting scarily intense and asking questions far too fast for Sherlock to answer. “He’d better be good to you, or he’ll have to deal with me.”

“John is very much a good man, and I don’t need my honour defended, thank you.” It was just one more blow to his pride. Why did everyone _suddenly_ want to protect him from the big, bad, love interest that was John? Especially Angelo. As far as he knew Angelo was the former client he got free meals from, not the stereotypical overprotective father.

“But if you do, you just say so.” He pause, letting his grin grow. “I’m so happy for you. Imagine that — Sherlock Holmes is in love!”

Angelo was smiling just a little too broadly for Sherlock’s likance. Honestly, was everyone going to react this way? It was getting on his nerves.

“So, would that be a ‘yes’ to the cameras?” he asked. Might as well get his answer now.

“Of course! The whole restaurant is yours, Mr Holmes. I’ll make sure you get the best seat and a top quality meal for you and Mr Bachelor.” Angelo gave him a big wink. Sherlock tried to keep his smile up. After all, free dinners were _incredibly_ nice and he didn’t want to have to learn to cook anything other than spaghetti any time soon.

“Thank you, Angelo,” he said, politely. “I appreciate it.”

“You put in a good word for me, yeah?” Angelo said, loudly, going to a cupboard and shuffling around. “Mention the restaurant and maybe we’ll get a bit more business coming in and out.”

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured, eyeing the piles of candles that Angelo was pulling from the cupboard. And a nice tablecloth. Oh, boy. “What are you doing?”

He already knew.

“Preparing! We’ll get a nice table set up, with a few candles.” Angelo smiled like a Cheshire cat and Sherlock just wanted to die. “Candles make it more romantic.”

Blech. He would never get used to that word in relation to him.

“Just, please, don’t overdo it.”

Angelo’s head perked up at the sincerity in the request. “Of course not. It will be _perfect_.”

That was enough reassurance for Sherlock. He still had a few things to do around the flat.

“I’ll leave it to you then.”

“Trust me, Mr Holmes,” Angelo called after him, “you will never forget the night!”

Sherlock just hoped it was unforgettable in a _good_ way.

~

Angelo watched him go, still lost in the surprise of it all. Sherlock was in love and it looked good on him! He looked happy — alive. It was just the kind of pep in his step that he had needed.

After all, Angelo had been trying to tell him that he needed a date for the last three years. He wasn’t surprised that he was right. This John fellow had better be up to the standard. No one broke Sherlock’s heart on Angelo’s watch — not even the love of his life.

Because John was obviously more than just a date. As he would say, it was clear to anyone who had eyes. Sherlock had been basically humming with energy, lively and almost happy. Or, at least as happy as Sherlock got. And that was saying something!

Sherlock had even said _please_. Please! From Sherlock Holmes! His heart could have stopped right then and there.

No, there was no way around it: this was a good thing. Mr Bachelor had better be up to the task of maintaining it, or Angelo might be facing murder charges for the second time in his life. He had been feeding this rather thin, angry man for a long time and that raised his mother hen qualities. He’d seen Sherlock when he was barely able to drag himself through the door, and he didn’t want to see that ever again. Angelo thought that he might be one of the only friends this man had, and friends don’t let friends get treated badly.

Alright, so he’d probably just be facing assault charges even in that scenario. Out of respect for Mr Holmes’ work on his last set of charges.

But there would definitely be murderous intent.

~

Karen’s father, Tim, gave him the coldest welcome yet. He had literally stuck out his hand and said his name. John wasn’t sure what to make of that, but Karen seemed to hover over him. She had adjusted his napkin and told him to smile, and patted him on the back when he looked glum. She acted a lot more like his wife than his daughter.

His _actual_ ex-wife was much nicer. Eleanor was a sweet middle-aged woman who didn’t act like a mother at all, and insisted on being called Elle. John could almost sense the fact that she had a younger boyfriend she hadn’t brought along. For appearances, probably. But that was more speculation than he usually allowed himself.

“Karen’s usually too tied down to find a man,” Elle said, cheekily. She was winking at John while Karen ran to the kitchen to get supper. “This whole thing has been a good vacation for her. Maybe now she’ll smarten up and get herself married.”

“I hope she’s been enjoying our time, anyway,” John said, a bit awkward. This was the least comfortable dinner he had ever attended. Tim still wouldn’t say anything to him.

“She’s fine the way she is,” Tim grumbled, not looking at John. “Leave the girl alone, Elle.”

“You should talk,” Elle said. “You won’t let the poor girl make any decisions on her own. Like a thundercloud hiding all her sunshine.”

“That’s enough, Mother. And you too, Dad. You’re supposed to be making John feel welcome.” She set the plate of ham down and settled in between John and her father. Her arm rested against his as she whispered, “Sorry. They fight like children.”

John smiled softly and Tim scowled. It was going to be a long evening.

~

“Seriously, though,” Elle was saying to him, as the two of them sat in the beautiful wide sitting room, “she needs this. Break her heart, do what you need to do, but let her break free from her father for a while”

“I don’t want to break her heart,” John said, completely honest. He was a bit unsettled by how close she was to her father, though. It was a really strange relationship to see in person, and hard to swallow from a romantic perspective. He could see where her mother was coming from.

“Well, do it anyway. If you don’t, she’ll probably break yours.” Elle paused and looked at him. “You might be fine, though. And if you are? Don’t let her baby her father. That man will go to the ground leaning on other people. That’s why we divorced.”

“You seem happier separated,” John commented. She did. She was a animated woman.

“We are. And I wasn’t going to be his nursemaid for the next forty years. But I don’t want Karen to be either.”

John nodded. That was all he could really do.

~

Tim glowered at him. John was steadily beginning to feel like he needed to leave. Or else. No one even had to say the threat aloud. It was still there. And Karen hadn’t really been softening the hostility. She almost seemed to be goading it on, unwittingly.

Like kissing John on the cheek just before her father started to talk to him.

“She’s not ready for a relationship.” Tim’s voice was gravelly and hard. John was terrified. “She’s too young and she’s got a lot on her plate. She doesn’t need you too.”

“I think she’s old enough to make that decision herself.” John couldn’t help it. There was no way to avoid being confrontational here. It was almost as if the very adrenaline of being scared turned him in to a fighter. At least he wasn’t in Afghanistan.

“She’s not your little girl. You don’t know her like I do.” Tim’s glower was getting more hostile. John wasn’t quite sure how that was possible.

“I probably don’t, but I like her a lot. I want to know more about her.” John was trying. He really was. “I don’t want to hurt her or push her into anything.”

“Good.” He didn’t seem happy. “Maybe you’ll do the right thing then.”

~

Karen walked him out, down the long dirt road. Her hand clasped in his, walking slowly in the moonlight, it was almost perfect. Except for the bad taste of Karen’s family lingering behind them.

“I’m sorry about my dad,” Karen said with a sigh. “He’s like that. He’d get used to you after you lived with us for a while, though.”

“Are you sure?” John asked. He couldn’t see Tim _ever_ adjusting to another man in the house.

“Yeah, I think so.” Karen’s half-smile wasn’t convincing. “I know he’s abrasive, but he has to adjust to reality sometime.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to bring a fiancé home, though?” John asked. Tim had brought it up, but he had a point. “I wouldn’t get between you and your dad?”

“It would be fine,” she said, harshly. No specifics. “I’ve got to do what I want at some point.”

John found it odd that the only thing Karen wasn’t bluntly honest about was her family. The things closest to her were apparently her blind spot.

“Sorry,” she whispered after a moment. “It’s been a hard week.”

“I believe it,” John whispered back, squeezing her hand. He couldn’t imagine dealing with that antagonism. “Sorry if I caused trouble.”

“No, no worries.” Karen smiled up at him, looking like herself again for a moment. “Sorry they were so tough on you. And that my sister didn’t stop by. I told you she was twat.”

John laughed. It felt good to smile after the last few hours.

“She certainly seems to be.”

“She packs up and leaves if things get tough around her. And she screams like a toddler when she doesn’t get her way.” Karen shook her head. “It was probably better that she wasn’t here.”

They reached the end of the drive and just stood, holding hands, looking at each other. Finally, John leaned in and kissed her.

“Thank you, for showing me your home,” John said when they broke apart. Karen smiled a little wider.

“Any time, John. Come by again sometime.”

Suddenly her face turned wistful, telling John that she knew something he didn’t. He just wished he knew what it was.

~

John woke up the next day feeling down right exhausted, but also excited. Not sleeping because of guilt was half killing him, but he was very ready to see Sherlock again. He missed the consulting detective’s wry and bitter humour, and the relationship they were forming. Seeing Sherlock in his element was going to be a treat.

And, fuck, just seeing Sherlock’s face again was going to be great. John knew that he was building some very deep bonds, now. Sherlock was definitely one of them.

The driver dropped him off at 221B Baker Street, a grey brick building with a very familiar figure standing out in front. Sherlock.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” John said getting out of the car, a smile already on his face and the thrill of happiness rushing through him. He knew he missed Sherlock, but he hadn’t realized how badly. His heart was pounding with the relief and just seeing him standing there lifted a weight off of him. He hadn’t realized that being away from Sherlock had taken so much out of him. “How have you been?”

Sherlock didn’t crack a smile until he placed a kiss on the detective’s cheek.

“Busy,” Sherlock said, vaguely, letting his soft and fond look harden again at the question. They started up the stairs, John following the swish of Sherlock’s coat just a little too giddily. “I’ve been trying to get everything in order.”

“You didn’t have to clean for me,” John teased. Sherlock blushed.

“Oh, yes, he did,” an older lady said as they passed through the doorway. She bustled over to take their coats, immediately fussing. “He needed to clean for _himself_ even. Sherlock, is this him?”

“Mrs Hudson, this is John,” Sherlock said gesturing from one to the other. He did so somewhat nervously, almost like he was suddenly embarrassed by the older woman’s presence. John found it almost cute. He couldn’t believe he’d ever use that word in relation to the consulting detective, but it was true. “John, this is Mrs Hudson, my landlady.”

“Nice to meet you,” John said, shaking her hand. She had a surprisingly firm handshake.

“Same to you, love, same to you,” she said, beginning to usher them up the stairs. “It’s so good to see Sherlock take an interest in someone. He’s been in denial for years.”

“I am _not_ in denial about anything, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock frowned. But he wasn’t really irritated. John had seen him irritated. Instead, it felt like banter with Mrs Hudson was soothing and instantly comfortable. “I simply don’t find most people interesting.”

“Unless they’re John,” she added with a wink. John felt his cheeks colour slightly. “He told me all about you. Sit, and I’ll make you some tea. But just because it’s a special occasion. I’m the landlady, not a housekeeper.”

She leveled a _look_ at Sherlock before scurrying out, presumably to make the tea.

She certainly didn’t seem like a housekeeper to John, especially considering the extent she seemed to care about Sherlock.  The detective meanwhile seemed to be comfortable with her, as if she _were_ really family and suddenly John wasn’t sure why the man had been so concerned about showing him his life. There was nothing wrong with having family that wasn’t biologically related to you.

John took a look around. There was a chemistry set on the desk in the corner, and a Union Jack pillow on the chair, and a ratty couch. He noted the skull on the mantle, and the pile of papers and miscellaneous things strewn about. Orderly, but still cluttered. He sort of felt like he was walking in on Sherlock’s psyche.

“She’s a sweet lady,” John commented, sitting down on the chair after Sherlock flopped onto the couch. “Very nice.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed. “She’s very accommodating of my...unusual tendencies.”

“And the skull, which he wouldn’t get rid of, and the bullet holes in my wall, and his habits of going in and out at all hours of the night.” She smiled and waved a kettle, coming up the stairs. “I just brought the kettle up with me.”

“Bullet holes?” John asked. Mrs Hudson pointed at the smiling spray painted face that had been half covered by a picture. John could see at least one mark in the wall. “Do I want to know?”

“Boredom, in a mind as active as mine, is a terrible thing to deal with.” Sherlock sniffed, trying to keep his calm. He hoped John wouldn’t run terrified from him after this date. He didn’t want things to be over yet. Please. Everything that had happened in the last week was still reeling through his mind. “I tried to occupy myself with target practice and failed.”

He was surprised when John’s face quirked into a smile.

“Somehow, I’m not surprised. I’m sure you keep her up playing the violin at all hours too.” John wasn’t bothered by how little Sherlock’s erratic behaviour concerned him. He knew the man was smarter than he could ever imagine being; somehow, the fact that that intelligence came with a commanding but wildly eccentric personality was simply enticing. That was the kind of person Sherlock was and John knew that he certainly didn’t have to be normal to be incredible and lovable.

John wondered what that said about him.

“He certainly does.” Mrs Hudson shook her head. “But someone needs to look out for him. He doesn’t have enough friends.”

“Thank you for taking care of him,” John replied, still smiling. Sherlock was wondering exactly how embarrassing this whole adventure would be. Hopefully not every conversation would end up with him coming across like he was a petulant child. He wasn’t.

“Well, thank you for giving him a bit of a romantic boost.” Mrs Hudson poured the tea in to three mugs. “It’s about time he had someone. Maybe you can double date with Mrs Turner’s couple. They’ve been married a few years now.”

“Mrs Hudson, can you please stop treating tenants like collectables?” Sherlock groaned. He’d heard about the ‘married ones’ three times now, and it wasn’t getting any less objectionable.

“Oh, hush, you.” John laughed at her frown. “I was just suggesting. Same way I would suggest you sleep in the upstairs bedroom. God knows yours is uninhabitable.”

Sherlock scowled. Mrs Hudson ignored him.

She brought the mugs over and settled down.

~

“I really don’t think this is necessary, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said with a bit of a growl. He wasn’t trying to be hostile, but honestly? She was making him nervous.

“Nonsense,” she parried, pushing him gently towards the staircase. “It’s my turn to talk with John. Go for a walk and don’t get into trouble.”

Sherlock gave a hopefully, desperate, pitying glance back at John — so much to say without words — and proceeded down the stairs.

“Button your coat, love!” Mrs Hudson called in reminder before bustling over and pouring another cuppa for John. He accepted it with a comfortable sigh. So far tea had been exciting and interesting. He had heard a lot about Sherlock’s cases and felt almost completely at ease in the little London flat.

“Thank you,” he murmured into his cup.

“You know, I’ve never really seen him this happy before,” she said, settling down and letting the couch envelop her a little. She gave John a look that was a lot sharper and disapproving than her grandmotherly attitude. “I mean, he’s usually running around and sometimes he’ll get so excited about a case that he won’t bother to sleep — but that’s hardly this.”

“What do you mean?” John asked quietly. He thought he might know the answer.

“You light him up. In a healthy way for once.” Mrs Hudson steeped her fingers, a small smile flitting across her face with the memory. “Even if he does still keep the skull around.”

“I don’t mind if he keeps the skull,” John said with a wry smile. “I kind of like it.”

Mrs Hudson smiled back at him. “I guess I don’t need to wonder why he likes you.”

“Well, I hope not. I like him a lot,” John cringed at the understatement of those words, “and I hope I can show that at least a little bit.”

“Really, though, you don’t realize how much of a change there is in him,” Mrs Hudson continued, a frown creasing her brow ever so slightly. “You’ve been really good for him, and I want to make sure that lasts for him. It worries me to think that this could be swept out from under him.”

John started to form words but she stopped him.

“I know that’s a lot of pressure on you. And I know there’s more than just Sherlock to think about. But please, if you’re not serious, tell him now. Before it gets any deeper.”

“I’m perfectly serious,” John said around the hard lump in his throat. “And I would never do anything to hurt Sherlock, intentionally or unintentionally. Never on purpose. I want you to see him like this more often.”

“You mean that?” she asked once more, her eyes scrutinizing his face in a sad and motherly way. Looking for the lies that would break Sherlock’s heart.

“I really, really do,” John replied with all the earnestness he could muster.

She sighed and nodded a sad, small, weak smile returning to her face.

“I think that’s all I need to hear. He really loves you, you know. And I know you can’t say anything either way; I _do_ watch the show occasionally.”

“Sorry,” John offered pathetically. At least she wasn’t going to pressure him.

“Not your fault, love. But you seem at home here, too. And there’s always space for someone Sherlock loves. So, _please_ , take care of him. He needs you to.” She sighed and rubbed at her forehead. “Sherlock has a way of drawing people in. The few people that he likes, that is. I’d really like to see you back here in a few weeks.”

“I’d like to be back.” John found himself staring at the teacup more than drinking it. “It’s going to be a hard choice, but I hope I’ll be back.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Mrs Hudson stood up and patted him gently on the shoulder as she went back to the teapot. It was only a few quiet minutes before Sherlock returned.

~

After their third cup of tea, Mrs Hudson got them their coats and sent them out the door, telling Sherlock to get on with it and stop boring John with the chatter of an old lady. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how her chattering was his fault, but he was glad to be in the car and on their way to the Yard. He had even texted Lestrade, to make sure that Anderson was _not_ nearby when he arrived.

Mind you, he didn’t have any faith that the inspector would heed that text.

John sat comfortably beside him, leaning slightly on his arm. It was comforting. Familiar. And it rather bothered Sherlock that he had missed this a lot. Somehow, the doctor had wormed his way into Sherlock’s life, and even deeper into his affections. He was adjusting to the presence and contact of a certain John Watson. Always there. Leaving Sherlock with the sneaking suspicion that John just might _belong_ beside him.

Which was irrational and not based in fact, and Sherlock was not thinking about this anymore. Period. He had more rational matters to attend to before he fell apart again.

Matters that didn’t tug at his perhaps non-existent heart strings or weigh him down with _emotion_. It was bad enough that he was in love. Deeply, horribly in love. He didn’t need to let it take over his brain.

“Where are we heading to?” John asked, calmly. Sherlock was surprised at how well he was taking to the realities of Sherlock’s life. He had been sure that John would think differently of him for the bullet holes. Or the disaster of his flat. Or the fact that he had _ensured_ the death of Mr Hudson, rather than preventing it.

“New Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said, quickly. “I wanted to show you what I do and who I work with. There won’t be a case to work on, but you can at least talk to Inspector Lestrade.”

“No dead bodies this time?” John was joking with him. That was a good sign, right?

“Unfortunately, filming something like that is a breach of confidentiality.” He smiled back at John. “Besides, I doubt fans of _this_ show have that degree of morbidity in them.”

John laughed, and the car stopped outside their destination. A group of officers were waiting for them outside the yard. Two men and a woman.

“Lestrade!” came Sherlock’s voice from the far side of the cab. The man with the graying hair waved as to two of them got out of the car.

 “I asked you to make sure Anderson, at least, _wasn’t_ here.” Sherlock glared at him. “I could do without Donovan as well.”

“Pfft, as if we would miss this, Freak,” Sally said with mockery in her tone. She was polite enough when she turned to John though. She offered a hand. “Sally Donovan.”

“Nice to meet you,” John said shaking her hand. Sherlock put his arm between them and made a shooing motion.

“Yes, yes, nice to meet you, have a good day,” he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You need to leave and so does Anderson, before John’s IQ starts to drop from being in your presence.”

John was instantly concerned by the fact that he had found that funny and had to suppress a rather unmanly giggle.

“Sherlock, relax,” Lestrade said, watching Donovan move to the side. “John should probably meet your colleagues.”

“They’re hardly colleagues and barely competent,” came the acidic response from the detective. “Meetings are unnecessary.”

“We’ll leave your messed up relationships alone,” Anderson chipped in. “If he’s not smart enough to get away from this fast, he probably deserves you.”

“That’s enough, Anderson,” Lestrade said sharply. John hadn’t even had time to lash out. “I don’t care about your antagonism with Sherlock; you can leave innocent bystanders out of it.”

Sally raised an eyebrow, but the two of them shut up.

“Look, we’re going to show you around the place liked civilized human beings.” Lestrade sighed and started funnelling his crowd towards the entrance. “But that includes you, Sherlock.”

John could have laughed as he watched Sherlock’s face form a pout. “Fine, fine. Just wave your magic badge and show us around.”

“Yes, he _is_ always this charming,” Sally added slyly. “And how you’ve put up with him for two months, I will never know.”

“It’s been a good two months,” John tried not to snap. All the picking back and forth was getting his defenses up. He didn’t know these officers, but he did know Sherlock. And as nasty as he could be, they were at least as ill-behaved back. It left a sour taste in John’s mouth. “And I wouldn’t call it ‘putting up’ with anything.”

“Oh no,” Anderson sighed. “He’s found someone as insane as he is.”

“Shut it,” Lestrade growled, leading them around a corner. “You two can piss off now that you’ve seen the cameras. Get back to work.”

Anderson hesitated for a second, but quickly skittered after Sally when she shrugged and walked away. Sherlock had this tense neutral expression that John hadn’t seen before. Almost as if he were worried.

“They seem unpleasant,” John whispered to him softly. Sherlock brushed his shoulder against John’s and let his expression soften.

“They are.”

They both smiled.

~

“So you’re his boyfriend, is it?” Lestrade asked, trying to be subtle. And failing.

“Ah, yeah, I suppose that’s the right term.” John had been left alone with the inspector for a few minutes, while Sherlock was dragged away to take a quick glimpse at a case. Somehow, he suspected that this was once again in place of his discussion with family. Sherlock didn’t seem to have _any_ traditional family. And not untraditional like Laura’s family or Karen’s. He very literally seemed to have no family that could or would appear on cameras. But the people who did show up seemed more _like_ family to him than the people who didn’t.

Not that John counted Sherlock’s brother as traditional family, anyway.

The inspector’s sigh was full of worry, and it seemed to be an added weight, as if John’s last sentence suddenly put a new air of seriousness on the conversation. As if the inspector was reminded of the task at hand. And then his face hardened and neutralized his expression. His posture straightened. And the office felt a little smaller. “Are you enjoying the show?”

“Uh, I believe I’m supposed to say yes,” John said, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. That last question was delivered with a blunt edge that probably served Lestrade well in the interrogation room. “But it’s actually fairly stressful.”

“But it must be nice to have so many women fawning over you.” Lestrade’s comments were making John very acutely aware of their locale. New Scotland Yard, and he was sitting with a detective inspector. Joy.

“I’m not in it for the fawning,” John snapped, a little colder than he had meant to. “I’m really trying to make the best of the situation and treat them well.”

“Even Sherlock?”

“Especially Sherlock.”

“Why?” Lestrade’s tone was sharp and cutting. John felt his hackles rise immediately and in a wave.

“Because I like Sherlock. A lot, and I want to make sure he knows that. He needs to know that.” John paused, feeling his heart beat a bit faster, as the words poured out of him with more than a little emphasis. And emotion. He needed to calm down. Looking at Lestrade’s face, it was still neutral and cold. He knew he was being provoked and knew that this is why this man was probably good at his job. “He stayed for me and I’m really glad he did,” John sighed, quieter now.

“That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.” Lestrade nodded slowly, digesting this. His expression had softened. And he smiled, and palpable relief flooded his face and his tone. John guessed he must have passed some kind of test. “There aren’t many people who worry about Sherlock, but I do. He’s an interesting man, that’s for sure. But I have no idea how a relationship with him would work. Orientation aside.”

“He’s amazing,” John said, slowly. It was true. That’s the best word to describe Sherlock. Amazing. “It’s working. I didn’t expect it to, but it is.”

Lestrade’s face lit up a bit. “Yeah? He’s not just slowly scaring you away?”

John’s laugh sounded almost like a bark. “No, he’s not. He’s more interesting than anyone I’ve ever met, and being around him is...exhilarating. I’m not sure why, but he’s been good for me.”

John knew he was thinking about his leg. But he was also thinking about Paul, and he was also thinking about kissing in Sherlock’s room, and how thoroughly he had managed to displace everything that was bothering him when he was around the detective. Being with Sherlock, he could be himself. Sherlock didn’t hide the skull on the mantelpiece, or the depression, or his condescending humour. And John didn’t have to pretend he didn’t find the jokes funny, even if he did feel disappointed in himself. And he didn’t have to hide the fact that he was broken from the war, or that he felt awfully guilty about what was going on with this production. They were flawed and it was alright, and somehow that made everything work together wonderfully.

Lestrade nodded. “That’s relieving to hear, Dr Watson–”

“John, please,” he interrupted.

“John.” Lestrade said, with a smile. “You’ll be good for him, I think. Try not to break him, though, alright? He’s a hard person to understand, but he’s not as unfathomable as he thinks he is.”

“That’s good to hear,” John laughed. “Though I think I figured that much out.”

“Good.” Lestrade gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You’re not what I was expecting , and I was kind of afraid you’d be a shallow idiot, to be honest. He’s a pain and a nuisance, but I’d rather see him with someone who cares than being dragged along for the novelty.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” John said with vehemence. “And I’m doing my best to be fair with everything in this shenanigan.”

Lestrade stood up, and came around the desk. “I think I can see that now. You’re a good man, John. I’ll give you that.”

“I hope so,” John said quietly, getting up as well and letting Lestrade lead him out of the room, “though not as good as I’d like.”

“Alright, thank you, you can _leave_ now,” he heard Sherlock snap before he saw him. “I told you it was a silly case.”

“You could have given us more than ‘check the fridge’,” Anderson snapped back, as they rounded the corner. “Really, a little bit of explanation couldn’t hurt.”

“It is not my fault you’re too stupid to put basic facts together,” Sherlock huffed.

“Leave off,” Lestrade commanded, for the umpteenth time. “I’m done with John, so you get out and we can get back to doing our jobs.”

“Thank you, Lestrade,” Sherlock said with more gratitude than he could normally muster. John could tell that this was something recurring. “If you’re done lecturing him, I think we’ll be on our way to dinner.”

“I’m impressed,” Sally said, with a hint of malice. “He actually had the forethought to plan a meal.”

“Donovan, there are lots of embarrassing things I could say about you on national television, so don’t tempt me,” Sherlock growled. He stormed towards the exit. “Come on, John.”

“Just a minute.” Sally stopped him. Her hand on John’s shoulder and a very level gaze staring in to his eyes. “Look, you seem nice. Be careful, alright? The guy’s a psychopath, and you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Sally,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “Try not to terrify him.”

“Seriously, though.” Sally continued, ignoring Lestrade. “He’s going to kill you if you break up with him, so...don’t. At least I wouldn’t.”

“I know what I’m getting in to,” John said coolly, brushing Sally’s comment and her hand off. “And I think I know him better than you do.”

 “John!” Sherlock called from the hallway, negating the need to continue the conversation further. Which was fortunate, because John really didn’t care what else Sally had to say. There was a good chance Sherlock _was_ a psychopath. But he was also something far more than that, and John was close enough to him that he didn’t think he needed to be warned.

He _did_ know what he was getting in to. Whether or not that terrified Sergeant Donovan didn’t matter to him. His own perceived lack of sanity was his problem.

He didn’t understand what was so insane about love, anyways.

~

The door opened widely, held by a dark and somewhat surly looking man with a huge smile on his face. For all John could tell, their visit was the best thing that had ever happened to him. The restaurant was dark — the curtains on the windows were drawn closed for the benefit of filming privacy — but lit almost entirely with candlelight. Every table had a set of lit candles and the ceiling lights were set to a low glow, possibly because of low quality light bulbs. But regardless, it was a nice atmosphere.

“Mr Holmes!” Angelo cheered loudly, flashing a huge smile directly at the camera. “And Mr Bachelor, nice to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you too,” John answered as Sherlock got wrapped in what looked like a very uncomfortable hug. The man quickly dropped Sherlock and grabbed John’s hand firmly.

“Angelo,” he said, happily. “Sherlock told me all about you, Mr Bachelor.”

“John, please.” John wasn’t sure he had ever had a handshake that enthusiastic before. “It’s good of you to have us.”

“Pah,” Angelo scoffed, ushering them in further, but not really getting them a table. “It was nothing. Sherlock always eats free, and if his boyfriend tags along we can spare a meal for him as well.”

“Oh?” John asked, trying to buoy the conversation as much as possible. “Why’s that?”

“I got him off the hook for a murder charge, some time ago.” Sherlock shrugged it off as nonchalantly as possible. John couldn’t help but wonder if _everyone_ Sherlock knew owed him a favour. Which was either incredibly nice of him or incredibly Machiavellian. Or both. “I proved that he was breaking into a house across town at the same time the murder was committed.”

“This man proved my innocence,” Angelo said from behind the counter, obviously rummaging for something. “He’s a good person.”

“I proved you innocent of _murder_ ,” Sherlock emphasized, with an imperceptibly small smile on his face.

“Still, I wouldn’t have my life if not for him,” Angelo bustled around to them again, grabbing some menus and leading them to a set table near the back. “Come now, though. It’s time to eat.”

John was sure Sherlock had requested a seat _away_ from the window, specifically for the cameras. The film crew demanded utmost secrecy. Otherwise, they would have been at one of the easily accessible front booths. It would have made more sense.

Not that John was complaining. The restaurant was glowing in the flickering candlelight and the back table was set like it had dropped out of a magazine. There were candles and flowers and a pristine tablecloth, with a perfect setting for two. Their chairs were angled to be more beside each other than across on the round table, and the warm wood walls, the feeling of closed space, made it feel like he and Sherlock were the only two people in the world.

“I’ve got my best cook waiting just for you two. Order anything you want, for Sherlock and his Bachelor, it’s free.” Angelo lit the candle in the middle of the table and gave them a wink. “You call me if you need anything.”

“Of course,” John smiled and flipped through the menu.

Sherlock didn’t even open his menu, and instead sipped some ice water. John took a moment to appreciate the quiet. Sherlock’s skin had taken on a warm glow with all the candles around. There was always a smooth and flawless feel to him and his perfect complexion, less like marble and more like a silk that could move easily into whatever shape the detective needed. But here, he looked warm. John’s fingers itched to trail across a cheekbone or run lightly across an arm. His fingers sought out the other man’s hand, slowly caressing the smooth skin, feeling the slight friction against his fingertips. His thumb rubbed the back of Sherlock’s hand as he flipped through the menu, lost more in the sensation than the food choices.

Angelo sidled back a few minutes later, trying to be as subtle as possible. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have the alfredo,” Sherlock said, still not having touched his menu.

“Chicken carbonara?” John requested, politely, scampering to bring his attention back to food.

“Of course. White or red wine?” Angelo grabbed the menus and swiftly headed to the kitchen.

“Red, please, Angelo!” Sherlock called after him. “If that’s alright with you, John?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” John agreed. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock did it, but everyone he met either was fond of the detective or hated him. And John was firmly in the former category.

Sherlock tensed and pressed his hand upwards into John’s, obviously forcing himself to relax.

“It must have taken forever to put all this together,” John murmured appreciatively.

“We’re hardly doing anything extravagant, though Angelo might have outdone himself,” Sherlock scoffed, still a bit tense, but less so now that they were talking. “I’m sorry you’ve been stuck listening to people blather about me all day.”

“It was interesting,” John said, feeling a soft smile slink on to his face. “You have a lot of good people around you.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, not making eye contact. John’s gaze slid across his strong features, watching the thoughts in his eyes, seeing him think of a hundred things in the span of a second and not being able to catch up with even one of them. He could only assume that the noncommittal answer meant that the detective didn’t necessarily agree. “It can’t possibly be that engaging. You’ve been doing this for four days now, and I’m sure every conversation went the same way.”

“Similarly,” John chuckled, eyes still glued to Sherlock, “but most of the other days have been quieter.”

“I didn’t think this was a particularly busy day,” Sherlock murmured, a bit of colour rushing to his cheeks. John squeezed his hand, reassuringly, subtly shifting closer to Sherlock. When their knees bumped together, he wrapped his foot around Sherlock’s ankle, drinking in the closeness.

“Busy in a good way,” John replied softly. “It’s nice to be a part of your life for a while.”

“No offense, John,” Sherlock said, a really glowing smile spreading across his face, “but that was hardly an average day in my life.”

John was lost instantly. The warmth and life in that one simple smirk could always draw him in, but the secretive, romantic atmosphere had him in a completely different mood. A day with Sherlock — even a contrived date day with Sherlock — was the perfect way to end his brief week in London. And sitting among the candles, he was hooked on the slender curve of Sherlock’s lips and the brightness in his expression, and how close they were when he turned all his attention to John.

“It was still a great day,” John responded, quietly. “I liked meeting all the people you know.”

“I hope Lestrade and Mrs Hudson didn’t interrogate you too thoroughly,” Sherlock murmured back. John could almost feel Sherlock’s breath on his lips. Could feel him getting closer. “They can be a bit overbearing at times.”

“They were fine.” John smiled, his forehead bumping Sherlock’s. “Lestrade is a bit intimidating, but pleasant enough. And Mrs Hudson’s a dear, really. I couldn’t have asked for better conversations.”

“Good,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes fluttering closed. “I just want you to enjoy the day without harassment.”

“There was no harassment,” John said with a smile.

They closed that small gap with a gentle kiss, deepening into more. John slipped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth as the other man’s lips parted. One of his hands brushed Sherlock’s cheek feeling the warmth, drawing both of them in closer, holding him there. It was like the candles had invaded their own skin, their breath. John’s head was swimming with how perfect it was to be this close. The depth of the kiss was augmented by the emotion surrounding it, as John could feel Sherlock press closer. It really was like they were the only two people left in the world.

“Oh, I think there’s some love in the air!” echoed the loud call.

They both pulled apart sharply, sheepishly looking around as Angelo bustled in with his tray of food. He gave Sherlock an overt wink.

“I told you candles made the mood,” Angelo proclaimed with pride. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

“I suppose you were,” Sherlock said with the monotone of embarrassment.

“Alfredo and chicken carbonara, on the house,” Angelo said as he placed the trays on the table with a flourish. “I’ll leave you to your kisses.”

Their ‘thank you’s were a bit feeble as they watched him leave. Sherlock settled his head on John’s shoulder as he sighed. He had completely forgotten about Angelo.

“I think he might have something with those candles.”

Sherlock nodded, nuzzling into John at the same time. “You know, he just might.”

The food was almost as good as the kiss on John’s cheek when the detective lifted his head again.

~

Angelo had seen the tenderness in that kiss — an expression he’d never thought he’d see on Sherlock’s face. But it was there and it was incredible. They had been lost in each other, perfectly synchronised. And he couldn’t be happier.

John obviously wasn’t faking his affection, he was just as tender, just as happy. He seemed to fit in seamlessly beside Sherlock, without a single bit of awkwardness. It was relieving in a way. Sherlock was happy with John. Truly happy. They fit together like two peas in a pod — if that wasn’t a recipe for happiness, Angelo didn’t know what was.

But John had a lot of power. Again, Angelo had seen Sherlock drag himself into the restaurant after having not eaten for a few days, tired, worn down, at the end of his rope. When it was that bad, Angelo always felt a jolt of fear for his friend. And John could make a depression worse than the worst he had seen. He’d never seen Sherlock this happy. He wasn’t sure if he could watch Sherlock crash from this height.

It would be devastating.

~

John was heading to the bathroom when Angelo cut him off.

“Listen, Mr Bachelor,” Angelo said shortly. “He’s a good man. Treat him right.”

“I plan to,” John said, calmly. He expected this conversation from fathers, not ex-clients who owned restaurants. “I like Sherlock, a lot. I’m not going to treat him badly.”

“You don’t see Sherlock like I do,” Angelo continued, not acknowledging John’s comment. “He gets really rough, tired out, overworked. He doesn’t know how to care for himself. And he doesn’t take care of himself. You give him a bit of spark, something to keep him from the really bad times. Don’t take that away.”

John was touched by how much people seemed to care about Sherlock. He was surrounded by people who wanted him to be happier, healthier — people who cared for him. People who didn’t really have an obligation to care. It restored his faith in humanity. As little as they could do, they were looking out for Sherlock.

“I would never want to take that away,” John said earnestly, looking him dead in the eye. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Good,” Angelo said firmly, seeming to hear him this time. Hear the truth in his voice. “You don’t break his heart.”

“Or else?” John joked. He hoped Angelo really wasn’t a murderer.

“No. Just don’t.” Angelo looked serious, solemn, and also very worried. This was clearly important. “He doesn’t deserve that from anyone.”

John couldn’t agree more.

~

They made it back to 221B only to find a note from Mrs Hudson:

_Went to visit Mrs Turner. I’ll be back around 11. Behave, boys! ;)_

The winking smiley face really gave off the scandalous impression John was sure that she had intended. He watched Sherlock discard it and sit down heavily on the couch.

“Water?” John asked, finding some glasses on the table.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock sighed, not paying attention as John headed straight for the freezer for ice. He turned when he heard the door open. And shut again.

“Sherlock,” John said, tone forcibly neutral. He had seen things in there that were _not_ supposed to be there. Not normally — but this _was_ Sherlock. He wasn’t sure if he could be scared or amused. “There are body parts in the freezer.”

Sherlock was blushing. Furiously. Which he supposed was better than shock or denial or anger. “They’re for experiments.”

“What experiments?” Oh God, John didn’t want to know, did he? Was this going to be the state of affairs? “No, skip that. Where did you get them?”

Sherlock stood up looking miffed. The expression was very much not what John had expected.

“I killed them myself,” he snapped, offended sarcasm tingeing his words. He was _pouting_. “The _morgue_ , John. Where dead people and their bits go after they die.”

“Is that legal?” John asked, coming around to the couch.

“They were all acquired legally, yes.” Sherlock paced for a bit. “And I use them to study different posthumous reactions in human tissue. It’s relevant to my cases.”

John nodded. That made perfect sense. Ha, Sherlock and perfect sense.  Nothing with Sherlock ever made perfect sense. But John knew an honest explanation when he heard one. And Sherlock — while he probably _could_ murder someone, judging by his callousness towards people — wasn’t a killer. He put murderers in jail. Stooping to their level would just be degrading for the detective. And John knew that long before this.

But John’s relief was short lived as the other man’s mood had sharply turned dark. Sherlock kept pacing in silence.

“You can just end this now, you know,” the detective finally said, a harsh melancholy in his words. “I’m not a normal date. You might as well accept it and just move on. The women are more deserving of your attention anyway.”

Well, that hit John right in the gut. The words coming from Sherlock’s mouth were a hundred times more cruel than being told the same thing from someone else. He knew better. No, the women were not somehow more deserving than Sherlock. Beautiful, intelligent, eyeballs-in-the-freezer, Sherlock. That wasn’t right. It wasn’t right for him to think that about himself, especially, even though John could see why. Everyone else said the same thing.

The whole idea was sickening.

“Sherlock,” John said, sharply. “Sit down.”

It took a second of staring before the detective moved to sit beside him. John could have sworn he saw a wince as Sherlock looked away. That wasn’t what he wanted.

“Sherlock, listen to me,” John said, looking at Sherlock’s downturned face. He really hated not making eye contact. He wanted Sherlock to hear every word he was saying, to believe them as much as John did. He wanted to tell this man how beautiful he was and how he was worthwhile — how John loved him. He reached out and brushed Sherlock’s hair out of his eyes, resting the back of his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “You are just as deserving as anyone. And eyeballs or fingers, or whatever it is you have in there is not going to change my mind.”

They both heard the chirp of a cellphone and were vaguely aware of the cacophony of the camera crew heading towards the stairs, then down them, but there were more important things to focus on right now.

Sherlock glanced up, then, dark curls drooping across his brow. And John felt a stir inside of him. Sherlock was _handsome_ , and John was _very_ attracted to him. And this wasn’t the most inappropriate of moments. And, damn it, this was a man he loved who needed a reminder.

John felt Sherlock’s hand settle on his knee, and he slid an arm around the detective’s waist in reciprocation.

“You shouldn’t put up with this,” Sherlock said with a calculated calm. “No one else would.”

“I’m not anyone else,” John said, carefully. “And I want this.”

John’s lips landed on Sherlock’s before the detective had time to react. Their hips shifted until Sherlock was almost wrapped in John’s arms, as close to John as he could get. Sitting there, lips pressed together and bodies pressed close, John let himself go.

 He could feel Sherlock’s fingers wander towards his chest. Sherlock was almost in his lap now, shifting to get closer, the arm around his neck tugging him forward to get lost in this wonderful man. He felt his own grasp at Sherlock’s hip, pull him closer, pull the kiss deeper, until Sherlock could not help but moan.

There was less desperation this time than the last, but everything else was still there. The passion, the feeling of drowning in each other’s touch, it was perfect and sexual and it wanted to culminate right there on the couch.

And, for all the right and wrong reasons, John was about to let it.

Sherlock was making that face again, that half-lidded, absolutely lost, lustful look that pushed him right to the edge. He could feel the desire stirring in his prick and his heart jumped as it twitched. Sherlock was gorgeous, flushed and desperate, warm against him and just as needy. John _needed_ this.

Everything else was gone. There was nothing beyond their few feet on the couch and Sherlock’s heartbeat against John’s — nothing else mattered.

He felt Sherlock’s hand grasp the bottom of his shirt, teasing the edge, pulling it up just high enough that the other man’s fingers brushed bare skin. That little bit of friction was all the encouragement John needed. He heard himself groan deeply as he pushed forward and pinned Sherlock between him and the back of the couch. The cushion felt soft and cool against his overheated hands, but that wasn’t what held his attention. The wetness of Sherlock’s mouth, the warmth of his body, the slip of his thighs between John’s — it was all overwhelming him.

Tongues sliding against each other, John slowly started on Sherlock’s shirt buttons, working the garment open while hands crawled across his back and stomach, caressing and moving like they were exploring new territory. The caresses were slower than before, but just as electric, the first gasp of skin on skin sending a shiver through John, a splinter of the touches he was craving. John pressed himself against Sherlock, tighter, feeling the taller man writhe into his touches. He felt every rasp of cloth, every heave of Sherlock’s chest, he heard every hitched breath as he moved.

He felt the buck of Sherlock’s hips and the pleasant burning lust that ran through his groin. He wanted this so badly he couldn’t think, couldn’t use his better judgment. And Sherlock was lost to it too.

He pulled back, ever so slightly, with a gasp, just to catch his breath, let his mind take in the situation. Let his mind take in Sherlock, with his open shirt, pale chest teasing him even as his fingers ran across a nipple, even as Sherlock writhed into his motions.

In that pause, Sherlock roughly pulled off John’s jumper, and shimmied out of his own shirt, throwing it somewhere on the floor.

And John smirked through the rush of lust. Sherlock was obviously at the same place he was.

Beyond the immediate fog, he wasn’t able to keep himself from running his hands along Sherlock’s chest, down his sides, reveling in the privilege of getting to see him shirtless. The smooth white of his chest had John’s heart racing already from the adrenaline, and the flurry of everything was bringing a roughness to his motions. A small nip to the detective’s neck started another moan, and John steered him back against the couch, half-laying on top of the other man. Groin to groin, chest to chest, Sherlock’s erection matching his own.

 The desire had pushed both of them off of the precipice they had been standing on before. Sherlock’s hips bucked sharply again as John put more pressure on his neck, responding to the quiet noises John was making, and the friction between the both of them. Every time they shifted, there was more pressure, more friction, more sensation, the blood draining from John’s head straight to his cock.

Sherlock was flushed and warm and uncontrolled, fingernails digging into John’s back, hands wandering, a leg curling to pull John even closer. John’s kisses were moving downwards, over Sherlock’s neck, across his chest, tasting the slightly salty sheen on Sherlock’s skin. Every moan, gasp, and swallow form the other man sent dizzying chills down John’s spine, making him even harder — and Sherlock’s body was responding exactly the same way. They were in over their heads. And every throb of John’s cock was sending him further into the haze of lust.

 There wasn’t anything to slow them down.

John didn’t care, though. This whole day was about Sherlock, and Sherlock needed this as badly as John did. The feelings, the emotions had surpassed their logical sides. It was too much for them — they’d been through too much lately, they missed each other too much, there was too much going on for them to have a chance to think.

Pausing only to deal with the button, he slipped a hand beneath the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, hearing the other man groan. John’s heart jumped to his throat, but he didn’t pause to think about logistics. He didn’t know where he was going, but he wasn’t about to stop now. His whole body was humming with the excitement, the adrenaline, the heat of his erection — and Sherlock’s. Moving slowly, carefully, he started to stroke his fingers along Sherlock’s pelvic bone. Gently, he worked his way slowly downwards, teasing, and feeling Sherlock’s hands scrambling across his back, feeling their chests heave together.

He heard the cough. Sherlock’s moan cut off, but John didn’t freeze immediately. He was too lost in the feeling of Sherlock’s body against his, his fingers’ proximity to Sherlock’s very hard cock. He bit gently at Sherlock’s throat and twisted a bit, roughly pushing his own body against the other man’s. Sherlock whimpered, and writhed involuntarily underneath him, though he seemed to be attempting to hold still.

“Ahem,” came an oddly familiar voice. That’s when John froze. And practically stared at the very poised Mycroft Holmes sitting in the armchair. Awkward.

John pulled back from Sherlock, scrambling for their shirts from the floor. Sherlock had simply buried his face in his hands, not moving, simply hiding his growing flush. John laid Sherlock’s shirt over his chest, covering him a bit for modesty, as he pulled on his jumper and perched on the edge of the couch. Neither of their hard-ons were going anywhere fast. Or at least not fast enough.

“Hello, Mycroft,” John squeaked, taking his embarrassment to another level. Sherlock was still lying there, unresponsive.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft replied with a nod.

“I don’t want to know how much you paid the cameramen, or how long you’ve been there,” Sherlock said, still not moving from his position, still hard, shirtless, and blushing, “but Mycroft, I swear to god, there are times that I want to kill you, then bury you, then dig you up again just to mutilate the body.”

“Well, this is supposed to be a family visit,” Mycroft said coolly with only a small hint of amusement. “I wanted to stop in and see your boyfriend.”

“I was informed that you’ve already met him.” Sherlock’s tone was hard-edged, but not carrying much weight. He wasn’t exactly in the most intimidating position.

“Well, yes. But now we’re getting closer. You might be engaged to him in another couple of weeks.”

            “I might not be, as well,” Sherlock intoned, forcibly neutral with a dark, husky tone to his voice that had nothing to do with the remains of lust. John wished he knew what the other man was thinking. “I’m sure you’re not helping my chances and I would really rather you weren’t here right now.”

Mycroft said nothing, but twirled his umbrella and raised an eyebrow. He clearly wasn’t about to acquiesce with Sherlock’s wishes.

The silence dragged on, and Sherlock slowly lowered a hand to his waist and tried to yank his zipper up without making any noise, but the room seemed to hone in on that one action, funnelling all of their attention to Sherlock’s attempts to regain some composure. Mycroft’s eyes darted from Sherlock, to John, to the ceiling, and back to Sherlock, staring at him like he was killing the Queen. As the zipper clicked into placed, Mycroft’s eerie staring focussed back on John, accusatory and shocked.

“I do hope you left my brother’s dignity mostly intact,” Mycroft drawled, clearly trying to cover his immediate reaction. John felt his throat tighten around a lump. “But I suppose I should have expected something like this.”

“‘Something like this’ is none of your business, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, saving John from the pain of trying to think of a response to that.

“You seem to have fallen rather far, rather quickly, Sherlock.”

“So what if I have?” The detective paused, and something flitted across his face that John thought might have been pain, but it was gone too quickly and covered by indignance.

Mycroft only raised an eyebrow, letting the room lapse into awkward silence again. Mycroft was the absolute master of awkward silences.

“So, ah, how have you been?” Alright, so it was a _weak_ attempt to pick up the conversation. But it was an attempt. No one else was trying. It was really hard to talk to potential future in-laws when they’ve just caught you with your hand down their brother’s trousers.

“Well, thank you,” Mycroft said with the authority of a lord. “And I see you and Sherlock have been as well. I hope you know my earlier comments still stand.”

“Mycroft, if you threaten him into a decision I will tell _Mummy_.” Somehow that sentence sounded like far more of a threat than the petulance of a child when Sherlock said it.

“Fine,” the other brother sighed, crossing his legs. “I suppose I should let him woo...or well...” Mycroft was at a loss for a word, face twisting with the sourness of seeing his brother in a romance, “Well...woo you in peace.”

“I’m not a damsel in a book — I’m not in a corset and this isn’t _Vanity Fair_ ,” Sherlock snapped, sitting up sharply and yanking his shirt on in the same motion. “John isn’t _wooing_ me, for fuck’s sake. We’re dating.”

“Whatever you’d like to call it,” Mycroft flatly intoned. “It still worries me to find my brother in such a compromising position with a man I hardly know.”

 “You already know everything you could want to, Mycroft. Don’t tell me you don’t have surveillance on the production.”

John’s stomach flopped.  For all he knew, he could be on Mycroft’s assassination list next week.

And, yes, the more he heard about Sherlock’s brother, the more he was certain that he _did_ have an assassination list. And that John could very well become a priority on it.

“Yes, and you’re quite the gentleman, Sherlock,” Mycroft said without a hint of sarcasm. “But no one can fault me for wanting to keep tabs on my younger brother.”

“I can,” Sherlock grumbled. He shifted abruptly, curling his legs under him. John tried not to be distracted by the sliver of white chest visible through his still-unbuttoned shirt. Sherlock really needed to be more aware of how attractive he was.

Mycroft sighed. “I just wanted to tell you that Mummy sends her best wishes. She’s very excited about all of this and was rather put out when she couldn’t make it to these introductions.”

“She only can’t make it because you keep her away from having any form of identifiable image,” Sherlock snapped. “Tell Mummy she’ll get to meet him eventually if this goes any further. But if it doesn’t, I’m blaming you.”

John didn’t believe Sherlock, and obviously neither did Mycroft. His brother’s incredulity was spelled out on his face.

They sat in silence for a moment after that. John couldn’t think of anything to say; he already felt like he was intruding on the brothers’ argument. But neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were inclined to speak beyond their apathetic glare contest.

“Keep your shirts on, lovebirds.” Mycroft finally said. “You’re lucky that I got rid of the cameras for you this time. Try to keep your control better next time.”

Mycroft stood up sharply and nodded to both of them. “It was a pleasure talking to you, John.”

“I’m not sure I can say the same,” John replied still frazzled and embarrassed. At least his erection was finally subsiding. Sherlock had no such luck in that department.

“I’d be disappointed if you could.” He could have sworn Mycroft had shark teeth right then. His tone took on just the slightest razor’s edge, his posture shifted oh-so-slightly to be more towering, more intimidating, but it was all so minute that he could maintain plausible deniability. “Don’t hurt my brother.”

“Leave him alone,” Sherlock snarled from the couch, not letting John answer. “And _piss off,_ already.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a sigh. And like that, the older Holmes was gone.

“I am so sorry,” Sherlock murmured, buttoning his shirt up. John wasn’t sure quite what the heartfelt apology was for.

“It’s alright.” John leaned over and kissed Sherlock on the lips, hands twining back into his naturally. Sherlock smiled. “No apologies necessary.”

Their heads rested together briefly, a bit of calm in the emotional storm that was threatening to overwhelm them. Love, embarrassment, happiness, lust, swirling around them, drawing them under. John wasn’t sure he would ever have enough time to parse out the last half hour.

“Thank you, John.” The quiet words caught John off-guard.

“For what?” John laughed watching as Sherlock’s perfect neutral face betrayed a bit of nervousness, some fear. “Having a wonderful day?”

“For not sending me packing immediately,” Sherlock said with a sigh. He pulled back a bit and looked John straight in the eyes. “For ignoring my eyeballs in the freezer and putting up with my brother. You’re a far better man than most.”

“If that’s true, the world is in a sad state,” John said with a smile.

“It is,” Sherlock returned.

They leaned together, feeling the warmth of skin through their clothes, not really saying anything. John didn’t know how to respond to that kind of compliment anyway. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, felt the comfortable weight of him, and relished it. This was how he wanted to end that date. Sweetly. Perfectly. Just the way it should be. After a moment, Sherlock broke the silence.

“You should probably go now,” he murmured, straightening up and pulling John up with him. “We’re probably in trouble as it is with production staff, if Mycroft hasn’t paid them off by now.”

John cringed. Being caught in the throes of passion by Sherlock’s brother was really _not_ something he had wanted to experience, but he had enjoyed it too much to really care. If anything, he wished they had been able to follow through. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t regret it.”

“As long as you’re sure.” Sherlock’s smile was coming back after it’s bout with mortification. “Can I walk you out, Mr Bachelor?”

John’s smile was back as well. “Of course, you can.”

~

Mycroft sauntered down the stairs, pausing at the front step to acknowledge the cameramen sitting there. The two of them were slowly drinking their coffees, enjoying the few moments they finally had to themselves. It had been a long day.

“All done, Mr Holmes?” Frank asked loudly. Mycroft nodded silently.

“I’d give them a few moments to compose themselves, though,” the older Holmes cautioned. “They were a bit flustered when I arrived.”

“You probably surprised them,” Frank said with a smile. “They tend to forget about other people when they’re talking to each other.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything to that, just chewed on his words, lost in thought. Finally he turned and continued on his way to his waiting car.

“Give my regards to Steve, please,” Mycroft called, not looking back. “And thank him for allowing you to turn the cameras off for a while tonight.”

“Of course, Mr Holmes. Any time.”

~

John had gotten home long before Mrs Hudson’s scheduled return time, with nothing to show for it but disappointment a _lot_ of memories of Sherlock. That was all he really needed from this day anyway, though, and it those memories were bringing a smile to his face.

But he knew what he was going to have to do the next day. He slept fitfully, and just long enough to make sure he was functionally rested.

~

The next evening was spent filming him in a room with pictures of the three women and Sherlock. He was supposedly agonizing, while they stood awkwardly in the next room. John didn’t need to agonize, but he supposed tension had to be built somehow. At least they hadn’t made him chatter with Dave. That was supposed to be part of the process.

When they finally sent him out to the rose ceremony, John was mentally exhausted. All four of them looked terrified, and he knew there was going to be crying. Why did every scenario have to be a bad one?

“Ladies and gentleman,” Dave said smoothly. “This week has been monumental in terms of your relationships with John. He has now met your families, and moved even closer to each of you. But there are only three roses on this tray. That means one of you is going home tonight. John, when you’re ready.”

John didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t. Not anymore.

“Sarah,” he said, quietly. She came up to him slowly. “Will you accept this rose?”

Behind her, Sherlock had gone pale.

“Yes,” Sarah murmured, kissing him lightly on the cheek and taking her flower. One down.

“Sherlock,” he called next. Sherlock looked like he had just been saved from dying. Relief flooded his face as he came up to take his rose. “Will you accept this rose?”

“Of course,” he replied, clutching the flower tightly. John made sure to kiss him gently before he went back to his place, giving a small bit of reassurance to quell the fear he could see in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Laura,” he said calmly, watching Karen’s face fall. She didn’t cry though, and Laura came up to him with a smile. “Will you accept this rose?”

“I will,” she said, cheerily, hugging him tightly and taking the flower back to her place in line. Dave reappeared.

“Karen, if you’d like to say your goodbyes...” Karen walked up to John and took his hand.

“Walk me out?” she asked, quietly. John nodded.

“Karen...”

“It’s okay, John,” she said, as they walked towards the car. “I knew this was over.”

“I just don’t think you’re ready for this kind of commitment yet. Your family is top priority, and they can’t handle you marrying someone right now. And I think that would really hurt you.” John spilled out everything he had thought about, all his reasoning, and he hoped she could appreciate his honesty.

She did.

“I know, and you’re right,” she sighed. “I’m not ready. I’ve got to break out on my own, but it’s going to take a while. You visiting made me realize that.”

“Are you going to be alright?” John asked, standing in front of the car. She nodded.

“I’ll be fine. Eventually.” That was when the tears started. “Just promise you’ll stop by some time?”

“I will,” John promised, hoping he could keep it. There was the possibility he would be shot if he came near that vineyard again.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and climbed in to the back seat of the car.

~

“I knew it was coming, but I can’t stop crying,” Karen bawled to the camera, tears flooding across her cheeks and tears dripping form her chin. “It’s totally fair; it’s totally right, but I want John to wait for me and he _can’t_. He just can’t. I want him to be there in a few years when I’m ready, and he won’t be and I don’t know if I can handle this.”

A sob broke through tirade, and she clutched her chest. Curled into a fetal position.

“I just don’t know.”

~

John felt terrible about Karen. He really did. But he felt better that she knew this was the right choice. At least with that, she was also going in the right direction. She could make it, and she’d find someone right. John could tell. And that someone wasn’t him — that was pretty clear. He couldn’t help her break away from the grip her family had on her; he couldn’t help her find her independence. But someone could and _would_. In this case, he was fairly sure that her mother really was right.

But now he had to deal with the torment of knowing what the next week brought. Overnight dates. The producers had actually come and confirmed with him that these three people were definitely his top choices. Then they reminded him that he didn’t _have_ to sleep with anyone. It’s just strongly implied that he _should_.

John wasn’t sure what he could do to make this better on anyone — including himself. He was probably just going to have to accept the fact that he would feel guilty for the rest of his life about the next few days. And he needed to somehow come to terms with what he had to do.

And then he thought about Sherlock and panicked.

Not the idea of having sex with Sherlock. That was clearly fine. They had almost been there when Mycroft interrupted. John was going to die of humiliation when he next saw that man. Absolutely _die_. However, actually having sex with Sherlock was an exciting prospect. Exhilarating, wonderful, and exciting.

 There was one important problem, though: he had _no_ experience with gay sex. None. Whatsoever. And there was absolutely no chance that Sherlock knew what to do, either. That needed to be fixed _immediately._

At least he knew what he was doing when it came to the women. But then again, he knew what he was doing _to_ all of them. Cheating might not be the right word, but it certainly expressed the sentiment.

John felt sick.


	9. Episode Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Nine - Venice, Italy
> 
> Please note the rating change!
> 
> As an aside, this fic was written long before series three (which I still haven't seen), so I apologize for any inconsistencies with canon.

Episode Nine

 

John had one day to himself once they reached Venice. And he was spending it in the hotel’s internet café with Dave hovering over his shoulder. A small part of him wanted to knock the grin off the host’s face. The rest of him wanted to melt into the floor.

His date with Sherlock wasn’t even first. He didn’t even know if they would _do_ anything on that date. But that’s what he was obsessing over. And honestly, he really just didn’t know what to do. And he was pretty sure Sherlock didn’t either.

He had the general basics down. He was a man, after all; he understood how he liked things, sexually. And he was doctor. He knew where to find a prostate and where nerve groupings could be found. What he needed to know was how to take those two elements and combine them into something that someone _else_ of the same gender would enjoy during sex.

That’s where the internet came in.

And, yes, he was willing to put up with the awkward fact that all of his internet activity was monitored. Even though that meant pulling up webpages like “Gay Sex Tips 101” while Dave repressed a snicker behind him. John could _almost_ see the humour — if he had still been fifteen, it might have been funny. Now he was mostly feeling embarrassed and overexposed.

But he wanted to make sure that this date went smoothly. And, damn it, this was the only way he could think of to do so. If it hadn’t have been for Mycroft, they probably would have fumbled their way through some awkward handjobs on their last date. At the time, John would have been okay with that. But immediately afterwards he had started to feel ridiculous. He wasn’t fifteen anymore. He had _had_ better sex than groping on the couch. And Sherlock deserved better than that. Especially if it was his first time.

And, from what John could tell, it probably was.

Though thinking about that possibility took John’s nervousness up more than a few notches, it also gave him a sense of determination. If they were going to do this, they should at least do it right.

 _If_ they were going to do this. If John could do _any_ of this.

The sick feeling settled into his stomach again. He really didn’t believe deep down that he could even think of going through with anything on these dates. But he was going to try. Because he’d spent so much time with these girls and Sherlock, and they deserved his best efforts. If they even accepted the damn key.

At least research on gay sex was helping distract him. Even if looking for beginner’s gay sex on Google wasn’t the most effective means of research. It was either that or porn, and he _knew_ he wouldn’t get anything halfway realistic out of porn. So he was stuck looking at badly written forum posts and awkward diagrams. And sometimes pictures.

They had been working on instinct before this, not really thinking about what they were doing. John had practically forgotten about the cameras last week at Sherlock’s flat, and he hadn’t paused long enough to even consider what he would do.

 But now that he was thinking about it he was really nervous. It was almost like losing his virginity again. All of a sudden, he had no idea if he was going to be any good in bed, if he had any clue what he was doing, and if either of them would regret it afterwards. Well, he knew he wouldn’t regret it. But he wasn’t sure he could go through with it. These were people he loved — he didn’t want to sleep with all of them in the span of three days. But he had to be prepared for the possibility.

“I can’t believe you’re going to go through with this,” Dave said, a weird, scrunched smile on his face. It was hard to tell if he was serious or just amused.

“Why not?” John retorted with an undertone of annoyance. Dave had been a nuisance the whole time John had been researching, chuckling at website names and making unhelpful quips.

“Gender aside, Sherlock isn’t exactly an ideal bachelorette,” Dave said. John felt his hackles rise at the word. “He was the ‘wild card’ — usually those don’t see more than a few episodes.”

“He’s not a ‘bachelorette’,” John corrected, coldly. “And I like him rather a lot.”

“John...” Dave sighed heavily and leaned against the computer desk. “I know it’s not easy to hear this, especially when you’re gearing up for overnights, but I really don’t think he’s the best choice for you.”

“Because he’s a man?” John snapped.

“No.” Dave’s voice had lost all its humour. “Because he’s a jerk. And I really don’t know how you don’t see that.”

“How,” John said, holding his anger in check forcibly, “is he a jerk?”

“He’s cold, callous, unfriendly, and rather bitter.” Dave sighed again. “I’m not trying to put down the feelings you have for each other — I know you care for him. And, despite everything I just said, I’m pretty sure he cares for you.” Dave made a face that seemed to announce that he might not actually believe that statement. “But I’ve been working on this show for a long time and I can usually tell when two people are good for each other. I’m sure you’re good for him, but I don’t think the same is true the other way around.”

“I think it is,” John said, minimizing his browser window and turning to face the other man. “Sherlock has done a lot for me, even if you haven’t been able to see it. He’s cold and callous, but he’s brilliant and loyal too. I don’t see how this is a mistake.”

Dave pursed his lips, clearly trying to be a bit more diplomatic. “When other people don’t like someone, there’s usually a reason.”

“I like him. And other people do too.” John frowned. “Everyone has people who don’t like them.”

“Most people aren’t Sherlock.”

“Well, I can certainly agree with that.” And John’s smile was a bit wistful, but it was back. “And that’s why I like him.”

Dave didn’t have anything to say to that. He just shook his head again and shrugged. “It’s your choice.”

“It is,” John agreed.

When he brought his browser window back up he was greeted by a very flashy, moving stick diagram, drawn in some sort of paint program using neon colours. They both pulled a face.

“Maybe you should stick to articles,” Dave suggested. It was the first helpful thing he’d said to John all day.

~

Sherlock glared at Sarah as she walked through the door of the hotel lobby and took a seat beside him. He was bristling at her closeness, not wanting to even see her smiling, self-assured face. Much less make idle chit chat while they wait for the hotel to give them their rooms. Separate rooms, thankfully. No more of this common room nonsense.

Obviously the producers could _sense_ when their contestants were a good excuse away from killing each other. Putting Sherlock in a room with _her_ would have ended badly.

And all it once it was obvious that his jealousy wasn’t gone, but rather more intense and loaded with a new sense of hatred. The difference was that this time Sherlock didn’t care.  He’d never see this woman again, and he was too tired to be courteous or to pretend they weren’t directly competing for John. He was too raw emotionally to have the kind of restraint he usually had or to care that it had evaporated. There were a lot of good reasons not to kill her. This wasn’t her fault. John liked her and he loved John. Sherlock’s stomach twisted at the thought but he violently forced it away. However, to his relief, there was no reason to not be rude to her.

He hadn’t slept well since he’d seen John last. John had slipped into place perfectly at Baker Street, so perfectly that Sherlock wasn’t sure that he could picture going back there without him. Going back to that couch. The couch he was still thinking of so incessantly since last week that he was almost ashamed to admit it. Having to see his damn brother, having to explain to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and Angelo that, yes, John had left him for a wonderful and perfect woman. Of course, just like he should. Again, it wasn’t Sarah’s fault. He couldn’t blame her in any rational sense, even if he desperately wished he could. Irrationally, however? Yes, he could.

 _She_ was what John should have, what he deserved. A good life.

But seeing her there was killing him slowly. Ethereal calm really chaffed against the sharp edges of his very frayed nerves. It had been barely a few days, but he missed John, more viscerally than he thought he could miss another human being. What was he going to do?

 “How have you been, Sherlock?” she asked politely, shifting her bag to beside her chair.

“Not well,” he replied with honest venom. He didn’t _want_ to be polite, but he wasn’t about to let her see how badly he was hurting. He was hoping to startle her into leaving him alone

“Are you sick? Cold? Flu? It’s been going around.” she asked, mild concern written on her face. He rolled his eyes. Apparently perfection didn’t involve brilliance.

“No, I’m not sick,” he retorted. He probably scowled too. Any obtuseness was going to kill his precarious politesse dead.

“Sorry,” Sarah sighed. She sank a bit deeper into her chair and she was quiet for a long minute, like she was trying to decide what to say next. Sherlock didn’t care what she said; he’d succeeded in making this conversation as unpleasant as possible and that was enough for him. When had he gotten this pathetic?

“I know it’s going to be a hard week for everyone. Try not to think too hard about it; it hurts less that way.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not thinking about it doesn’t make it go away.”

Sarah’s face froze timidly, contemplating where to go next. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Absolutely not. Especially not with her.

“Is there anything I can do? I’m in the same place too, that’s something” No, that wasn’t something. Because there was no way she was in the same fucking place he was. She wasn’t thinking about John in his flat on his couch, with his hand on his pelvic bone and slowly moving downwards. She wasn’t thinking about how when she got rejected she was going to have to go home and stare at that piece of furniture every fucking day and think about how much she loved a man that had left him for some perfect woman who was amazing for him and how happy he was with her. How much better he was now that he wasn’t in a relationship with a consulting detective that was slowly coming apart at the seams because he was never going to see John ever again. Never going to feel him again, or his warmth or his hands or his presence. Just a painful, horrible abyss of silence.

And absence. Just...absence.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He was fine. He could sit here and be fine.

“Is there anything I can do?” In the absence of real sympathy in her voice, Sarah had managed to fake the necessary intonation. She didn’t like him — why would she? — but she did work in healthcare, and he was sure she prided herself on being nice to everyone. It probably bothered her that she didn’t like him. Good.

“No, there really isn’t,” Sherlock snapped. The only thing she could do was turn on her perfect heel and go perfectly far away, but he knew that wasn’t about to happen. Sherlock didn’t look at her. It still grated on him that she could be so calm and talk civilly at times like this especially when he felt like such an incurable mess inside. He wanted her to be angry and insecure, to feel the same intense fear that he was going through. She didn’t though. She didn’t need to be afraid. She was going to win.

“Well, if you need to talk, you know where to find me,” she said, clearly not expecting those words to mean anything.

Sarah waited patiently for the response as the awkward silence stretched out several seconds. Sherlock knew she was still staring at him, but fuck it, if she wanted a pleasant conversation she would have to go to her stash of adorable woodland creatures, fairies and gumdrops. He wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of eye contact. He was _not_ going to make nice with this woman just because they should. Social protocol be damned — he never followed those rules anyway. He could feel the tension inside him building the longer they sat there.

Sarah frowned and shifted in her chair, distracting herself with Laura’s entrance.

“Hello, Laura,” she said with a wave. Laura waved back, took a seat and looked directly at Sherlock. He noticed her face pale a bit as she greeted him.

“Hello, Sarah. Sherlock.” Ah, another person who was less than happy with him for vying for John’s affections. What a pleasant group they made. “How have you both been doing?”

“Quite well, thanks,” Sarah answered. She continued when Sherlock didn’t say anything. “It was nice to be home for a little while. Being away from family has been hard.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Laura said, wistfully, glancing at Sherlock. “I’m glad to be back, though.”

“And to see John again?” Sarah said with a wink. “We all want that.”

Ugh. They did. But did they have to talk about it? He was doing his best to forget John’s other romantic interests, even if they were in the same room with him. His odds were terrible, and he didn’t want to think about them. Laura apparently thought the same. She changed the subject.

“It’s too bad we all have separate rooms, now, though. I’m going to miss sharing the telly and having someone to talk to.”

She looked at Sherlock. Who ignored her. There was no way she actually missed fighting with him over what show they were watching, or getting blunt answers to her questions. She probably just wanted him to back up her sentiments. And he certainly wasn’t going to.

“Well, I suppose that’s true. There’s a bit too much time alone this way,” Sarah replied with a smile.

Laura’s eyes lingered on his face just a bit too long. Sherlock didn’t know what was wrong with her, but he wished she would stop staring. He didn’t look that terrifyingly sickly, did he?

“Time alone will be nice,” Sherlock added, trying his damnedest to polite. It was going to kill him, but if it got Laura to stop staring it would be worth it.

Laura’s expression shifted like he had slapped her, though he didn’t know why. But she took a deep breath and shifted her attention back to Sarah, obviously still caught up in whatever was bothering her.

“Well, _I_ missed you two. Hopefully we’ll have time to get coffee together or something before all this chaos starts.” Laura smiled widely, and Sarah smiled back, politely. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. They weren’t about to make those plans.

“Your rooms are ready if you’d like to go settle in,” Dave announced suavely, a little less formal than he normally was. They picked up their things, and Laura paused for a moment, almost like she wanted to say something to him, before she turned to grab her bag.

Sherlock wasn’t about to care about what was bothering her. Maybe a couple of weeks ago, whatever she seemed to be struggling with would have been a welcome bit of entertainment to interrupt some intense boredom but now it was just trivial and none of his concern. He wasn’t here to be her confidante, and he had _plenty_ of problems on his own. He just wanted to go to his hotel room and deal with his torment in peace.

~

John knocked on Steve’s door before he went back to his room for the night. When he saw him, Steve immediately ushered him into the room and gestured at a chair. John sat down heavily.

“What’s on your mind, John?” He took a seat himself, in the chair beside the bed. He looked comfortable.

John only wished he could feel comfortable right now. But he had to do this. He was going to go into this prepared, damn it.

“I just wanted to know if we’d have any sort of...supplies, I guess, for the overnight dates.” He wasn’t blushing. Nope, not at all. “To make sure we’re prepared. Does the production cover that?”

Steve laughed, and John felt himself shrink into the chair. Fine, he was blushing. But anyone would be, right now.

“No worries, John. They’ve all been checked for STDs — very thoroughly, I may add. We’ve got good doctors. And there will condoms in the room.” Steve winked cheekily. John tried to force a half-smile on to his face. “We wouldn’t want any pregnancies down the road.”

“Right, definitely not,” John said. And then braced himself for the next question. “What about lubrication?”

“They’re all young; they shouldn’t need it. And if they did, they’d probably be prepared for that themselves.” Steve shrugged.

“For Sherlock,” he added. Steve’s eyebrow raised high.

“Really?” The surprise in that question really wasn’t necessary.

“Yes, really,” John insisted. Steve’s face twisted into a very bemused frown. John wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“I see. Right. I’ll send someone out to get some tomorrow. You’ll have it by Sherlock’s date.” Steve laced his fingers and sat in thought. They sat for a moment in silence before John figured he was finished. Besides, his patience wasn’t able to tolerate any more of Steve’s thoughtful staring.

“Thank you,” John replied, standing. It was time to get out while he still could.

“John?” Steve asked quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I did let you know that nothing had to happen, right?”

“Yeah, you did.” John squeezed his eyes closed. Apparently no one expected Sherlock to make it past this date.

“Alright, then. Just checking.” Steve stood up. He didn’t seem angry. Just quiet. John wondered if he was ruining Steve’s ratings by having a strong relationship with Sherlock. Maybe.

Maybe Steve didn’t know yet.

Either way, John couldn’t bring himself to care about Steve and his stupid production rules. He was going through this for Sherlock and Sarah and Laura, and he was damn well going to do what he felt was right for each of them. Not whatever was right for Steve’s ratings.

It was hard not to slam the door as he left.

~

The production crew had lined the three of them up, and Dave was hovering in front of them, ready to give his speech. The crew gave the signal.

“Alright, ladies, Sherlock, we’ve reached a very important moment in your relationships. This week, we’re having overnight dates.”

Sherlock perked up in fear. Overnight dates? When did he agree to that? Why would _John_ agree to that?

“Each of you will get an entire day with John, and at the end of that day he may offer you the key to the Bachelor’s fantasy suite. If you accept, you will spend one magical night with your Bachelor.”

Disgusting turn of phrase aside, Sherlock was suddenly very aware of what the girls had been chattering about before this. Apparently he was expected to sleep with John this week. On national television.

“I thought this was a family-oriented show?” he asked, sharper than he’d intended to. But, really, he thought they deserved that right now. Pressuring people to have sex for ratings with the feeble excuse of ‘furthering relationships’ was about as low as a snake that had been unceremoniously run over by a lorry.

Dave smirked a little. Sherlock suppressed the urge to run across the room and strangle him with his bare hands. “The cameras will leave you alone after you arrive at the suite. Whatever you do will be off record. We give you the freedom to do or not do what you want.”

Oh. So they just heavily _imply_ the sex. So much more comforting.

“Also, for the record, everyone — including John — has been tested, and we’re all okay. Protection will also be offered in the suites.

 “Alright. Rest up! You’re going to be in for a few busy days,” Dave chirped, shooing them out of the lobby and toward their rooms. Sherlock fumbled his way down the hallway, not physically unsteady, but mentally so. It took him two very shaky tries before he managed to slide his card key into the room’s reader and open the door. All he could do was try to not look like a mess where someone might see.

Sherlock immediately got out his violin and sat heavily on the bed. But his hands were shaking too badly for him to play.

He wanted to have sex with John. Not a problem there. In fact, he _desperately_ wanted it, more than he could bear to admit. This was the only relationship he had ever had, the only relationship that he ever _would_ have. He knew that already; he didn’t _do_ romance. When John was gone, he was romantically finished. The very least he wanted was to consummate this before it was over.

No, the problem lay completely in the fact that he was suddenly horribly aware that John might just sleep with all three of them. He didn’t want to think that John was that kind of person, he didn’t want to think he was capable of that. But he also didn’t want to think that he’d be unwilling to consummate _their_ relationship. And why should he get special treatment over Sarah? Perfect Sarah, whose relationship with John was probably just as strong as Sherlock’s. Who was a better choice anyway

And there was always the possibility that it wouldn’t happen. Or that John would just sleep with Sarah. Everything he was craving might not happen, might be pushed by the wayside for John’s moral code. Which he couldn’t possibly fault John for. Not ever. It was part of why he loved and trusted him so much. What it came down to was none of this was John’s fault, and John was trying so hard to make it less painful, and it just wasn’t possible. Nobody could make this hurt less.

He wanted to give John every part of him. Sherlock trusted him enough to let him see him naked, let him see every vulnerability, every moment of failure. And he felt stupid even thinking that, but it was true. This whole act involved trust that Sherlock never thought he’d have for another person. Ever. He did _not_ trust people. People were not trustworthy and they did not treat other people well — the more trust you place in them, the more they disappoint you. The more they hurt you.

His heart lurched in his chest at the thought of the kind of pain John Watson could cause. All the things he could do to Sherlock at this point. Sherlock wasn’t used to this. He was used to being in complete control, of letting no one get close enough, of letting no one have any part of him that might be a liability. That might be anything other than hard, calculated, and carefully thought out.

But in the last couple of weeks, he’d let go of whatever walls there were between himself and John. Since Prague, since Christchurch, since his flat, he’d let go. He’d let _go_. The doctor had access to everything he was and a lot besides that. And it scared him that here he was and Mycroft’s words were ringing in his head: ‘You’ve fallen rather far, rather quickly, Sherlock.’

Yes, he had. Fuck, he really had. Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, trying to drown out the sudden rush of fear. This was frightening. To be relying on someone else so much. To be giving someone else so much.

And maybe this wouldn’t mean that much to John. That thought came and hit him in the face almost like a hammer blow. Maybe John would see this as just sex, and that’s it. Fun but not anything more meaningful than that. If he could sleep with all of them, then that definitely was a possibility.

No. That wasn’t true. Sherlock knew this man and knew that John wasn’t the type of person to be that flippant. If he was, he wouldn’t have done a lot of things he _had_ done. He wouldn’t have made Sherlock feel so safe.

He could see it in John Watson’s face that when he said he loved him he meant every word.

 Sherlock knew that most people would never remotely understand him. But John Watson seemed to. And he knew that despite what his brain was trying to tell him, his heart was probably right for once. That John Watson would know that this act was a colossal step forward for him. That he was giving John a lot more than he thought he could ever, ever give. And he hoped John would feel that.

Just like Sherlock could still feel John’s hands on his waist, his mouth on his neck, his weight on his body. Just like Sherlock could feel his presence every second he was gone. He wanted John’s touch so badly, emotionally and physically, and he loved him so much it was like a taste he couldn’t get out of his mouth. A screen in front of his eyes. And fuck, it scared him that John could be like every other idiot he had ever met. One that had cleverly fooled him into this trap he was in.

Sherlock took a deep breath to stop the rising tide of panic.

That wasn’t true for John. John was trustworthy.

Or at least Sherlock sincerely hoped so. He really wasn’t sure what he’d do if that trust were violated.

And, oh boy, wasn’t he in for a day of fun. No matter what way this went, Sherlock was going to feel awful.

His muscles trembled as his headache set in. He simply pulled the violin closer to his chest and waited for it to pass. If it would ever pass.

~

The next morning, John met Laura in an area of mainland Venice that his guides kept referring to as _Mestre_. Basically, it was a nice and heavily populated area of the town. They were in for a day of wandering around and shopping and sightseeing. None of these final dates were very exciting, really. He was supposed to be getting to the heart of his relationships, which meant a lot of emotional talking, and a lot of just spending time together.

Which was fine with him. He needed that kind of time anyway.

Laura kissed him firmly on the cheek when she got there.

“This looks great, John,” she whispered, eyes glowing with excitement. “What’s in store for today?”

John wrestled out his tourist map to show her. It was the one piece of equipment he had been provided with.

“Sightseeing?” he asked, rhetorically. “I’ve got a map, and a good sense of direction, and there’s a clock tower right over there to start with.”

“Sounds amazing,” Laura said with a wink. There was a big smile on her face, and John was reminded of their date last week. She was still energetic and excited, and he really enjoyed spending his time with her. She obviously really enjoyed time with him as well.

Unbidden, the memories of London brought back a vivid picture of Sherlock’s couch.

“Come on, John,” she said, tugging him gently. “If you don’t start walking we’ll just stand here all day.”

“Right,” John said, snapping himself out of it. It was time to just let go of any lingering doubts about later and keep his mind on sightseeing with Laura.

And he was damn well going to love it. For her sake.

~

Sherlock had been staring at the ceiling for hours at this point. He hadn’t slept. He _had_ slapped on a nicotine patch. Only one, though — he had a very limited ration of them for the time being. Just enough for him to try to think above the buzzing emotions. And his fluttering heartbeat.

His fingers had tired of the violin. Most of the night he had spent trying feebly to remember the songs he wanted, doing his best to conjure up the expansive repertoire he normally had at the tips of his fingers. Instead he had stumbled through the same few arias, forcing himself to change the dynamics, play with the rhythms, letting the slight variations distract him. Letting himself try to focus on something, even if it was just the vibration of the string under the bow and the echo in his ear. Every missed note grated on his nerves, screwed the tension in his muscles just one notch tighter.

He finally had to put it down. Couldn’t stand the sound of his mistakes any longer. He could feel his hands trembling, and his motor control wasn’t as finely tuned as he liked it. He had dropped his book — the only thing he could manage to do after not sleeping all night. And he felt the tremor more than he heard the sharp rustle of the pages when he had to turn them. The paper would give a quick accusatory quiver, reminding him that reading was only a good distraction when you could focus enough to remember the page before.

Memories of John had kept him awake all night. The two of them, lying entwined on his couch, in his flat. Right where they should be. The weird sense of happiness he felt at having John in his home. The way showing him around had felt better than a case. Healthier. Nothing about him was healthy. What is health to man whose personal life expectancy was less than forty? But this thing he had with John made him feel healthy. Made him think that dying at seventy-five might be nicer than dying at thirty-five.

If John were next to him.

And he wanted to keep this relationship more than he had ever wanted anything. Right now he was scared, terrified, and he still wanted this, even if he lost John.

He wanted to keep John. Forever. That was abundantly clear. But he truly didn’t believe it was going to happen. The emotion was just overpowering and the fact that he wasn’t going to win made him wonder what kind of state he’d go home in. Well, not wonder. He basically knew. Pathetic, broken, lost. But that wasn’t the issue at hand and Sherlock stubbornly refused to think about it more than that. He had stayed and he would fucking get through this.

When he was rejected and sent home, he would deal with the aftermath.

If he _could_ deal with the aftermath.

~

They had had lunch on a bench near the clock tower they had started by. Laura had been really enthusiastic about going from place to place, and stopping into cathedrals and shops and parks. John felt like they had seen the whole city in the four hours they had spent running around.

“This is so much fun.” Laura chomped down on her sandwich and swallowed a bite. “Going out with you is always so perfect.”

“Same to you,” John replied, quite happily enjoying his food. “You’re so energetic. Everything is fun with you.”

“Good,” Laura laughed. “If I couldn’t make things fun, I’d want you to tell me now.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that.” John knew she didn’t. They smiled at each other and lapsed in to silence. They both knew what conversation was coming next. It was unavoidable.

Mind you, John was fine with that. They needed a chat anyway.

“So, ah, I guess we should talk about our relationship.” Okay, lame and forced start there, John. But you can recover. Just be smooth. “About where you see ‘us’ going.”

Smooth. Right.

Laura didn’t seem to notice though. In fact, she was looking kind of pale and worried, very suddenly. John knew it was a hard question to think about. Especially when your answer could mean that everything was over. Normal couples didn’t have this much pressure on them.

Normal couples also didn’t spend half their dates thinking about the almost-sex they’d had last week with another man, or the fact that it could turn into real sex within twenty-four hours. Normal couples didn’t have to feel the jolt when they brought themselves back to reality after visiting a ratty couch in a London flat. They didn’t feel so excited about someone else when the pretty, smart girl they were dating was talking to them.

“When I’m with you,” she started, very slowly, “I feel like I’ve known you forever. Like you’re my best friend from when I was six or someone I’ve always had around. It felt really right for you to come meet my family.”

She seemed to struggle for a moment, but John was patient. He wasn’t going to rush her through anything or demand a hard response. He honestly just wanted to know. Because he couldn’t talk to her about Sherlock or Sarah, even though he wanted to.

“I want you to be there after this. No matter if you choose me or not. I don’t want you to not be in my life, no matter what.”

Her eyes were so earnest, and she grabbed his hands for a moment. And just sat. Her words were lost in her throat. So John picked up.

“Do you think we have more than a friendship, though?”

“Of course,” she said. But her smile was weak and she couldn’t quite look him in the eye.

~

Billy really hadn’t signed up for this part of the job. What he had been told about this internship was that he would be doing a lot of camera work and helping out with the editing process. No one mentioned fetching coffee, or spending hours doing set up, or standing in the rain waiting for packages to arrive. And yet, somehow he had ended up doing all of those things. And more.

And now he was standing in a pharmacy staring at the shelves. Wondering which brand of lube would be the best for gay sex.

They had basically told him to get the cheapest stuff available. But that wasn’t really right, and, honestly? He felt like screwing them a bit. Fuck these guys and their backhanded errands. It wasn’t his fault they were too embarrassed to go get the stuff themselves. He would damn well get something nice and expensive.

The problem really boiled down to choices. Warms on contact? No silicone? Water-based? Coloured? Flavoured? Squeeze tube or pump style?

Seriously. This wasn’t what he wanted to be doing on summer break. He was supposed to be taking a fun internship. Lots of silly women running around, playing with camera angles, editing out swear words and cutting film to be interesting and poignant, _and_ fit into a two hour segment. He liked that kind of stuff.

This was just ridiculous. KY or Astroglide? He didn’t really care. Though he did find the surprise gay relationship interesting. Despite all the silly flippancy of introducing it as a ‘twist’, the two of them actually seemed to care for each other. And the fact that it was happening was tying the producers knickers in a knot, which Billy couldn’t help but find hilarious.

He should definitely get a squeeze tube. Easy to use, easy to grab. And probably stay away from flavoured, coloured, or warming. They might not like any of those things. And that really wasn’t his choice.

So the real goal here was to find the most expensive bottle of the normal stuff. He could do that.

Fuck. This was the last time he did any sort of internship. Really. No pay, tons of work, and absolutely awful experiences. One day off in Venice? Totally not fair.

The cashier gave him a weird look when he came to the counter. He tried to ignore her, but the repressed snort of laughter when he asked for a receipt was a bit difficult to not hear. Weren’t cashiers supposed to be used to this kind of stuff?

He didn’t really care. As soon as they got back to London, he was quitting this shit.

~

“Billy?” Steve called, peering over the receipt that had been handed to him. “Why did this cost you twenty-three euros?”

Billy shrugged, not looking up from the camera he was fiddling with.  He _did_ catch the mortified look on Steve’s face, though. Sweet justice.

“It was the stuff the cashier recommended. I guess lube’s expensive in Venice,” he blatantly lied. He wasn’t going to snicker, promise. “Not surprised. Everything else is too.”

A huge sigh. “I’m really not sure how it got to this point. When did John and Sherlock get so serious?”

“Hey, it was your idea to add him to the show. Sometimes stuff happens.” Billy couldn’t help it. Steve was being _such_ a prat about this. “Let them enjoy themselves.”

“Really?” Billy didn’t answer that. Steve frowned, glanced at him, then spun on his heel. “Well, at least it should be good for ratings. Drama.”

Billy didn’t respond to _that_ asinine comment, either. Who cares about ratings at this point? But Steve looked like he might turn purple with the stress. After the door slammed Billy let out a very suppressed laugh. For tonight, the small victory was his.

~

John and Laura sat down for dinner in a lush Italian garden. It was a beautiful, solitary table among the leaves and vines, set up so the two of them could have time alone. Laura had gasped in delight when she first saw it.

John had to agree. The whole thing was beautiful. And the candlelight on the table warmed the colours in Sherlock’s face even though he wasn’t there. In the space of a moment he had stepped in and out of a restaurant in London, and it took him a second to realize that he was still in Venice.

As they sat, he was bracing himself. Gritting his teeth, so to speak. Soon enough he would be handing her a key and possibly taking her back to a room. And he wasn’t sure he was ready for that step yet. But he was going to try. For her sake. And fuck it, he was just going to get it over with. He couldn’t eat with this kind of roiling fear clenching his insides.

 He got the envelope out with a little rustle.

“Laura,” he said, stomach turning with nervousness. She looked at him and saw the paper. “I’ve got something for you.”

He passed the envelope with the key and note to her. She took it in silence, and held it, not opening or reading it. Just holding.

“John,” she said after a moment. She paused again. “John, I can’t do this.”

He could feel his eyebrows shoot up. That was a shock. Somewhere in the gritting his teeth for the overnight with Laura he had forgotten that she may not want the key or want to be with him. When had he gotten so arrogant? 

He didn’t have time to be disgusted with himself. That would come later. Right now Laura looked like she was going to throw up and she needed John to pay attention to her, not his own humility.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, trying to sound soothing. Laura looked so pale and sick, and he didn’t know what to do. “It’s perfectly fine, I’m not upset.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered as the first few tears splashed down her face. “I wanted this so bad and we spent weeks together and I really do love you, but, just...I can’t.”

John tried not to feel so relieved. She was crying and hurt, and this was awful. He felt terrible for her, because her position on this show was so much worse than his. But it was a lot of pressure off his chest. And that lack of pressure left him free to comfort her properly.

“Laura, honestly, it’s okay,” he said, leaning over and giving her a hug. She clutched at his arm and sobbed, while he pulled her closer, trying to provide a bit of peace. Be someone reassuring.

“It’s not okay.” She shook her head violently then buried herself in his arms. “I’m supposed to love _you_ and I just spent so much more time with him and he was so smart and aloof and mysterious...I just...I...”

The sob shook through John’s arm. He wasn’t sure what to say. In fact, he was pretty sure anything he said would make things worse for both of them. She was talking about Sherlock.

“You’ve fallen for Sherlock?” He sounded far calmer than he thought he would be able to. But really, he could understand where she was coming from. After all, _he_ had fallen for Sherlock. And the detective was all of smart and aloof and mysterious and handsome.

“Yeah,” she sniffed, slowly regaining control. John brought a hand up to stroke her hair, trying to comfort her, even with the knot in his stomach. “I think I love him.”

“Have you told him?” John didn’t know why he said it. It seemed like the right thing to do. But it twisted in his gut like a hot iron.

“Not yet, no,” she said. “I’m not sure how he would take it. But I want to. I have to. I might not see him after this and I need to say something.”

John wasn’t okay with this. But he needed to be. No options. God knows how close they had become. They had lived together. They had actually _had_ time together, alone, in a domestic setting. He hadn’t had that yet. And maybe Sherlock wanted someone he already knew he could live with. Maybe John _wasn’t_ the only person Sherlock got along with. From what he heard in her tone, Laura obviously got along with him fine.

Sherlock didn’t have to put up with him. And if he so chose, he could have someone else, someone better. Or no one at all.  One girl crying over Sherlock could now upturn the very unsteady footing that he had called reality. He could lose him.

John Watson was scared. And he didn’t know what to do about it.

~

“ALL HANDS ON DECK,” Steve roared, grabbing one crew member by the collar and shoving him in the direction of spare equipment. “We’ve got major developments, and I want every _angle_ covered!”

Billy sighed and grabbed a spare camera, not bothering to put down his coffee. No one ever used his footage anyway. Besides, there was no way this was as interesting in person as it would be on air. Supposedly.  Steve took a glance around the hall that was serving as a break room, watching as his crew very slowly scattered towards their various jobs.

“Hurry it up, or you’re all fired!” He stormed around, looking for someone to be too slow. The hustle picked up. “And we’re all out — get over to Sherlock’s room.”

~

Every camera followed Laura back to the hotel. John was trailing behind, not quite sure what to do with himself. He wanted to support her, but he just couldn’t. At this point, all he could register was his terror that Sherlock would leave him for Laura. And there was a chance he would. It sickened him that he could be so selfish, that he could so desperately want Sherlock to not be happy with someone else.

But he didn’t think he could stand to see that soft smile directed toward someone else. He looked so happy when he was with John, and they got so lost in each other. John could still remember the feel of Sherlock’s skin under his fingers, the way his clothes felt so rough compared to his flesh. The way Sherlock gasped when he kissed him.

His hands shook with the thought of that leaving. Of the fact that maybe Sherlock didn’t want this quite as badly as he did.

Maybe everything he had thought was wrong.

Laura paused when she got to Sherlock’s door. John could imagine her stomach was in knots. He didn’t care. His stomach was in knots too.

They could hear the eerie scratch of the violin through the door, soft and shaking, quieter than usual. John’s heart pounded in his throat, his palms were sweating and his fingers trembling.

It took a moment of hovering before she got up the nerve to knock firmly on Sherlock’s door. The loud raps seemed to echo through the dead silence of the hallway.

John waited until he saw that familiar head of dark curls peer through a crack in the door, knowing he wouldn’t be the one going in to comfort him.

~

Sherlock wasn’t sure why Laura was standing outside his door. He didn’t really want to know, but he supposed he should ask. Besides, it wasn’t really a good idea to the slam the door in her face when there was a gaggle of cameras recording his every move.

“Why are you here?” It had been a long, sleepless forty-eight hours. And he had expected her to be lying in bed with John right now, and he was trying to adjust himself to the idea of doing the same. It was a very complex process. One that demanded his full attention, in his attempts to distract himself.

“Can I come in?” Laura asked meekly. She looked like she had been crying and he spotted John hovering in the hall, amid all the other crew members. Interesting. John looked sick and desperate, almost as sick as Sherlock felt. That was worrying.

He unchained the lock and let her and the cameramen in. The faster she got out of here, the faster he got to go back to his mental anguish.

He didn’t sit. She didn’t either.

“So?” He really just couldn’t fake politeness right now.

“Um.” She fidgeted. Nervous. “I just finished my date with John. And I wanted to see you.”

“Why?” Hadn’t he offered her the key? Sherlock felt the relief wash over him for a moment and then squashed it. There was still Sarah.

“Because I refused the key.” Why did that necessitate a visit to see him? She looked pale and tired and Sherlock really didn’t feel like breaking down her wishy-washy emotions. He just wanted to go back to working through his own problems. She didn’t want John, which meant she was obviously a complete idiot and didn’t deserve him anyway. As much glee as he felt over her effectively removing herself from his sphere of concern, he still couldn’t find it in him to sympathize with whatever trivial plight she had found herself in.

It took her a minute to regain her voice.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

What? No. Oh, no, not possible. That really did not making any sense. He could grudgingly admit to missing Amanda’s overtures, but this was something else. He could see her posture, the nervousness in her face, the tears shimmering in the corner of her eyes. She was scared. But she was completely sure of what she was saying, serious about their possible connection, and that suggested a much deeper kind of process, one that any idiot should have been able to see. How had he not seen something like this coming?

“We barely spoke to each other except to bicker!” he caught himself exclaiming, furious with himself for not seeing the signs. It was true, though. He fought with her over the remote. Spoiled her soap operas. Ruined movies. Bickered about temperature. They hadn’t had a single interaction that could have been interpreted as ‘romantic’.

“I liked bickering with you.” Oh, there was something wrong with this woman. And she was starting to tear up again. “I could fight with you over the remote every day for the rest of our lives, but I think I want you to be with me.”

This was absurd to the point of being almost laughable now. Cheesy cliché phrases aside. How could she think that this added up to some form of relationship? He could honestly say he didn’t feel anything towards her other than mild camaraderie. And even that was questionable. More likely he felt absolutely nothing at all. This was just a disaster and one that he wasn’t in any way prepared for, yet again. Great.

 Deciding what to do was taking too long, as he looked at her crying face. She was wringing her hands, nervously, waiting and he didn’t know what to tell her. As his indecision was stretching the awkward silence into uncomfortable oblivion he knew had to say something, _anything_ soon. So he figured the gentle but honest approach would be the best route.

“I...can’t say I feel the same.” Sherlock tried to control his tone, hoping that none of his anger or annoyance would filter through.

She immediately choked up. Tears and sobbing, and hiding her face in her hands. Sherlock didn’t have a clue what to say. He didn’t have a clue what to do. She was crying, and he supposed he should offer a hug or some sort of comfort, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than mouth an empty-hearted apology.

 “I’m sorry?”

Damn it. Why couldn’t John come in after her? He was good at this kind of thing. Very good. Sherlock had seen him gently reject women for weeks now. And this was just really _not_ Sherlock’s area.

“No, it’s...No.” Laura shook her head violently. “I just want to go home now.”

She practically ran out of the room. Sherlock followed her to the doorway, only to see her sobbing on John’s shoulder, with John petting her hair and telling her it would be alright. And something in him fluttered. She was leaving. She didn’t want John and actually wanted him instead. That was ludicrous — John was an amazing, _good_ , supportive man. Sherlock was not any of those things. He was a terrible person.

That was exactly why he stood no chance of winning this competition. John deserved better.

And now he stood there and watched John comfort a woman and wondered if he would get a little bit of pity before he went home. Maybe some affection and a gentle caress. Fingers in his hair.

He wanted that. It was stupid and emotional and went against all his cold logic. His mind-over-all-else abilities that he so prided himself on cried every time he thought about John. John Watson was a weakness, love was a problem, and Sherlock was letting himself be an idiot every time he thought about a hand on his and the warmth of another body.

But he wanted that.

He wanted it from John. Badly enough that he was willing to ignore the fact that it was probably going to mean a lot of emotional pain afterwards. Enough that he may not be able to see his way out of it for months, or years, or possibly forever. Enough that he was willing to break apart and potentially never come back. Because he loved John that much. That incredibly much.

That was _exactly_ why he would go through with that date tomorrow. He couldn’t have it forever, but for one day he was damn well going to pretend and not think about what that may cost.

~

Nobody said anything as Laura sobbed into John’s shoulder. He knew he was murmuring something soothing, but he couldn’t for the life of him have said what. His eyes were locked on Sherlock, holding him with his eyes. The detective looked exhausted, and annoyed, and beautiful. Everything about him was beautiful. John’s eyes traced over his strong shoulders, and down his thin sides, taking in everything as he held the crying woman. He loved that man so much that it hurt, sometimes. He couldn’t even fathom what he would have done if he’d left.

His heart clenched just thinking about it.

Laura packed up and left, quietly, after John had held her for a while. She was still upset and pretty shaky but she had perked up enough to tell him to call her before the wedding; apparently, she wanted to make him his suit.

He might take her up on that offer. But for now? He was just so relieved. So incredibly relieved that Sherlock had decided to stay. He may not know if he was choosing Sherlock or Sarah. In fact, he was confused and tired and uncertain of everything. All he knew, was that, despite his fears, he hadn’t been wrong about Sherlock; Sherlock loved him. But having Laura reject him — and then having Sherlock reject Laura — had brought him a new focus.

Because John Watson may have been scared, but he was also powerless. His emotions had taken over a while ago, without him noticing. He wasn’t the only man out there. Or woman. And he never would be the only option. Sherlock could decide to waltz out of his life and never speak to him again. Sarah could fall in love with the bellhop, or the guy at the coffee shop. There was no real reason for either of them to want him. But he wanted them to be here. More than he had ever expected to.

And his eyes lingered for a long time on the figure in the doorway and then Sherlock’s eyes met his. Sherlock’s beautiful blue-grey eyes, and all the heartache and exhaustion they held. John wanted to comfort him too, to spend that time close to him, to feel their hands brush and their smiles match and their lips melt together — to feel that connection and forget about the rest of this. His hands were on Sherlock’s hip bone, his shirt open, the couch creaking softly beneath their moans. Their lips were firmly pressed together, their tongues intertwined, and all his nerves were gone, all his stress was gone. There wasn’t anything but glorious, glorious Sherlock.

Except Sherlock was still standing in the doorway and John was still surrounded by cameras in the hall and they had been staring for just a moment too long. And he wasn’t supposed to go and talk to Sherlock — not before tomorrow. So they stood apart and alone. That was reality.

And reality was that he had two relationships that he really wanted to keep. He had to pick one soon. He was getting ready to make that decision. But at least, for now, he knew what he was going to do about it.

He was going to go out with Sherlock tomorrow and have a date he would never forget.

~

St. Mark’s Square was bustling very typically the next morning, when Sherlock arrived. John was excited. It was impossible not to be. He had a lot to talk about, but more importantly he just wanted to spend time with Sherlock and be close to him. He still felt shaky after the night before. Sherlock had stayed.

As he climbed out of the limo, the detective shifted his gorgeous, silky hair out of his captivating, soulful eyes. John felt his heart trill, and then immediately felt like a girl. Couldn’t he be excited and still not act like a teenager? He was going to have to work on that.

Sherlock walked up to him and John immediately pulled him close and kissed him deeply. Briefly, but with a lot of force behind it. He’d missed Sherlock. He needed to talk to him.

“Hello to you too,” Sherlock intoned, resting his hands on John’s hips. “That was a little more enthusiastic than I was expecting.”

“It’s been a while,” John said with a shrug, not quite willing to let Sherlock go yet. “And you’re still here after last night.”

 Sherlock just snorted.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He sounded dismissive.

“You spent a lot of time with Laura,” John said timidly, trying to express his worries without sounding overwrought. “And she’s pretty, and funny, and smart, and a good girl. I don’t know if you’re bisexual or gay or what, and I didn’t know how close you were to her. I was worried.”

“You had absolutely nothing to be worried about,” Sherlock assured him with an eyeroll, pulling away just enough to take John’s hand.

“It didn’t feel like it at the time, though,” John said with a sigh. He wanted to hold the detective close, keep them tightly pressed together, even though they were in public. He held back for decency’s sake.

“John, I consider myself to be asexual. Excepting you and your apparently lovable self, I don’t feel sexually attracted to anyone and never have.” John could feel Sherlock’s frown. But his chest warmed with the relief. “And I have no idea why she thought she loved me.”

“Probably for all the reasons I love you,” John said, feeling his heart well up with happiness. He was overreacting, feeling everything a bit more than he should, but it was really good to hear Sherlock’s obvious confusion.

Sherlock pulled a face. And blushed at the same time. The end result was absolutely adorable — according to John.

“I don’t actually know what _you_ see in me, either.” Sherlock’s hand went up to cover his eyes. “And we spent a lot of time bickering and not much else. I have no idea where this came from.”

“Well, she loved you a lot from what I can tell,” John admitted carefully. He didn’t want to disregard Laura’s feelings, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t overjoyed that Sherlock wasn’t interested in her in the slightest. “But I do too, and it was really terrifying for that while.”

“You had nothing to be jealous about, John,” Sherlock said with his sly, knowing smile. John lingered on those lips for a moment, wondering if Sherlock could always accurately tell what he was thinking. Deduction should not be telepathy. “If I had a type, it would not be her.”

“If you had a type?” John smiled. Sherlock Holmes didn’t have a type.

“Well, I suppose I _do_ have a type.” The sly smile turned completely Cheshire. “You.”

~

They had ended up in the Correr Museum, after walking around for a while. They had plans to spend the afternoon exploring the various shops. Maybe look for a souvenir. John was happy, and Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. It was relaxing.

His planned agenda of ‘talking about our relationship’ was next for Sherlock. He knew he had to have those conversations. They were important, but they didn’t feel natural. And conversation was so natural between them, usually.

“I’m not a huge fan of Venetian art,” Sherlock admitted confidentially as they explored one of the exhibits. “Most of it is a cheap imitation of what was going on in the rest of Europe, at the time. Or wrapped up in how _Venetian_ it is.”

He gestured at the room of portraits. All of which were Venetian political figures.

“These, for example.” Sherlock sighed heavily. “Bland portraiture, done in the same style as every other artist at the time. Nothing innovative. It’s an interesting collection, but it all screams tourist trap.”

“Not one for rich Venetian history?” John asked. Sherlock snorted.

“They built a city on poles in the water and have had tourists ever since. That’s about all the history they have.” A few people nearby looked at Sherlock in shock. John just grinned. Trust Sherlock to not mince words for nicety.

“It’s a nice romantic place, though.” John had always liked the idea of going on a date in Venice. It was typical and cheesy, but in just the right way. “I’m glad I got to bring you here.”

“I’m glad you brought me.” Sherlock’s response was hushed but honest. “I want to be here, John.”

“And I want you here.” John could do this. Emotional discussions didn’t have to be embarrassing and awkward. “I think we have a really strong relationship. I can see us living together and working together. I can see this working.”

“I hope so.” Sherlock’s eyes drifted downward and he seemed to cringe a bit but was trying to hide it, his voice tinged with hurt. John wasn’t sure why, but that sounded like pain. Like he was on the verge of heartbreak. “I want this to work.”

“So do I.” John reached out and grabbed his hand, giving it a good squeeze, bringing Sherlock back to the present from wherever he had gone. Sherlock tilted his head up and gave John a smile that was more watery than John was alright with. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said firmly, his expression forcibly disappearing into a neutral blank before he shook his head vehemently. “I’m just thinking too hard.”

“Not about tonight though?” John’s forehead creased with his frown.

“What?” Sherlock looked startled for a moment. Off guard. “No, definitely not.”

John sighed his relief. He still wanted to ask, just in case. “You’re okay with everything, though? I don’t want to push anything on you.”

They both knew he was asking if Sherlock was okay with sleeping with him tonight. It was oblique, but direct. And Sherlock held John’s gaze with an unimpressed stare that neither of them could keep up. He knew exactly what he was thinking as they both broke into a smile.

“We almost had sex on my couch last week,” Sherlock said with mischief. No vestige of fear or hurt anymore. “You’re a little bit late to the asking.”

John blushed. “Sorry. I should have thought a bit before pushing forward like that.”

“You didn’t need to. I’m fine.” Sherlock’s voice was completely assured, and John felt something let go. Some piece of guilt alleviated. “With everything that comes later and everything that this date implies. I don’t think we really need to drag out an extended conversation on the subject. If you are alright with it, I am as well.”

Okay. Alright. So the long awkward ‘are you sure’ conversation didn’t have to happen. This was good. Relieving.

“I’m definitely alright with it,” John said, happy again. Sherlock looked like a piece of artwork, beside the paintings — long, perfect brushstrokes to shape his sides, his arms, his legs. The perfect curve of his neck. John was staring again, tasting Sherlock’s skin, feeling him moan under his mouth, his breath catching in his throat and his mind slipping away from him. “Everything about this is better than alright.”

“Good. Then there’s no need for a debate on the subject.”

Trust Sherlock to not want to talk about the more intricate parts of their relationship. Not that John could blame him. If they got too far into a conversation, he had the feeling that Sarah would come up. And then he wouldn’t know what to say, and that might just break Sherlock’s heart. He couldn’t stand to break Sherlock’s heart. Not today.

“John, don’t get moody about it. You have far less to worry about than I do.” Sherlock sighed and started leading him over to a new painting. “If I can handle the pressure, so can you.”

“Ah, sorry,” John replied. Sherlock was right. It wasn’t fair for John to be moping. “You’re right, I’m being stupid.”

“It’s not stupid to _have_ emotions. It’s stupid to let them rule your every action.” John smiled at the half-insult. This was the Sherlock he knew. A bit of a condescending prick. And he meant that in the fondest way possible.

“Let’s go look at the sculptures?” he suggested, twining his clumsy hands into the marble columns that Sherlock called fingers.

“Whatever you want,” Sherlock agreed.

~

They had wandered through the Palazzo Ducale for an hour or two, taking in the scenery and the gorgeous ceilings and museum works, and just talking. Not about anything important or specific — about things like Sherlock’s hatred of tourists and how wonderfully interesting old prisons were.

That’s where they were now. The prisons. Sherlock had insisted and John had just smiled and agreed. It probably should have disturbed him that he even loved Sherlock’s morbidity, but it didn’t. He even loved Sherlock’s morbidity.

His hand was yanked sharply, after a moment, and he found himself stumbling quickly after Sherlock, heading towards what looked like an indoor bridge. When they got about halfway across, Sherlock stopped.

Hands touched John’s face and Sherlock drew their lips together, slowly sinking his mouth to John’s. John felt his fingers slide across Sherlock’s waist, pulling him deeper, feeling Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth, the warmth of their bodies pressed together. It was a long minute of being close and forgetting everything else before John could even think about letting go. He didn’t want to. He wanted to stand here kissing Sherlock on this bridge forever and feeling the other man, tasting him, being lost with him. When they finally pulled apart, he was panting and flushed and his hand didn’t quite move from Sherlock’s hip.

John’s heart skipped in his chest. “What was that for?”

“I believe the tradition is to kiss under the bridge, but I don’t think we’ll be on a gondola anytime soon.” That was the second time today that John had seen Sherlock’s Cheshire grin. “Besides, I couldn’t pass up the criminal aspect of the place.”

John smiled at that. _Ponte dei Sospriri_ — the Bridge of Sighs — the last view of Venice that prisoners had seen before being imprisoned. A perfect place for Sherlock. The perfect place for John too.

John peered out the window beside Sherlock.

“Spectacular view,” Sherlock monotoned as they stared out at the mostly empty water and a pack of tourists on a solitary bridge. “I especially like the dingy water.”

John chuckled as he straightened, taking Sherlock’s hand firmly in his own, not ever wanting to let go.

~

They made their way down to the very crowded market afterwards, looking at all the touristy souvenirs and the memorabilia. Sherlock seemed to tense at the proximity of so many other people in such close quarters, and ended up standing practically on top of John for most of their purchasing, using him almost like a human shield. John didn’t mind. In fact, it was kind of nice to have Sherlock so close to him, pressed against his side or brushing against his back. Comforting. Familiar. Like he was where he was supposed to be.

Their final stop before dinner was a booth filled with masks and gondola merchandise and gaudy bobbles. Sherlock was frowning poignantly at the piece John was holding, staying close to avoid the crowd.

“John, honestly, I hope you aren’t planning on hanging that up anywhere if you come back to Baker Street with me,” came the dry comment.

John couldn’t have been more amused with how much Sherlock hated the mask he had picked out. He thought it was a beautiful souvenir — all gold, with purple feathers and hand painted details. Very _Carnevale_. Or at least, he thought so. Sherlock clearly disagreed and the skepticism on his face was hilarious.

“It’s a nice mask. I’m sure it will look great in the living room.” His cheeks were hurting from smiling so much and the shopkeeper was trying not to stare at them. John didn’t care. “Besides, your only souvenirs are postcards.”

“At least postcards aren’t tacky.” Oh, and there it was. Sherlock was smiling too. Mission: accomplished.

“Neither is my mask.”

“Yes, it very much is.” Sherlock began to turn slightly away as John leaned up and kissed him, softly on the corner of the mouth, feeling the upturn of Sherlock’s smile. His arm slid around Sherlock’s waist.

“You like it anyway.” Sherlock’s smile widened and the shopkeeper had stopped trying to hide her staring. Sherlock didn’t seem to care any more than John did.

“I like you. But that doesn’t include your ugly mask.”

John kissed him again all the same.

~

“I can’t believe you actually paid money for that ugly thing,” Sherlock lamented, as they ate their dinner. Their table for two was the same one that John and Laura had sat at the previous night. Apparently the production budget only allowed for one private dining location in Venice.

Which was fine with John. The food was delicious and the gardens were beautiful. He still couldn’t ask for a more perfect setting. It was almost seven thirty, the sun was hovering low on the horizon, and the candlelight made the table even more romantic.

“It’s a great mask,” John retorted. It was. If only because it came with a memory of Sherlock.

“Whatever you need to believe, John. Your delusions are your own.” Sherlock smiled into his spaghetti. John couldn’t help but grin as well. The whole day had been spectacular. That was exactly how he liked to explore cities — half culture, half adventure. And Sherlock was the perfect companion. Now he was sitting in the candlelight watching the golden tinges filter through the other man’s hair, and appreciating how...beautiful Sherlock was. Beautiful was an odd descriptor for a man. Normally he’d use handsome or something along those veins. But beautiful was the right word. Dark curls, white skin, blue-grey eyes. Every piece of him was sculpted perfectly. Sherlock was gorgeous. And amazing.

It was hard to remember what it was like to not be attracted to this man.

And it was no wonder Sherlock was also attracting the women in the competition. Laura. Amanda. John really wasn’t sure why a man as beautiful and interesting as Sherlock was still single. And the producers had told him to make sure he asked any questions now, rather than later.

“I suppose I should’ve asked before this,” John said quietly. He hesitated. “I think it’s obvious that I’ve had a few girlfriends. In the past.”

“Yes, John, I suspected as much,” Sherlock said with an eyeroll. “And I am perfectly fine with your sexual history.”

“I’m glad.” John swallowed hard. “But, ah...how about yours? Have you had any...romances? Dates? Women or men?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. But his response was very firm. “No. I haven’t. Woman or man.”

“At all?” John asked and immediately regretted it. “No, nevermind, you don’t have to answer that.”

He had almost forgotten about the cameras. One does _not_ ask their significant other about their suspected virginity on national television. That’s simply rude.

“No, it’s alright,” Sherlock said slowly, visibly bracing himself. “You should know.”

“It’s really none of my business,” John protested. He didn’t want Sherlock to have to do this now. He didn’t have to do it now. Why couldn’t John think for one minute before he opened his stupid mouth?

“It _is_ your business,” Sherlock said with a sigh, looking utterly mortified but determined. Like he had already accepted this admission. John’s heart lurched. He really _shouldn’t_ have asked on camera. “If it is anyone’s business it is yours. And yes, I am a virgin. In every sense. And I have never had any relationship before this one.”

“Really?” John almost couldn’t believe that, and his incredulity won out over his common sense. “No one?”

“John, I told you right away that this wasn’t my area. I meant it.” Sherlock was frowning, looking worried, but John smiled and put a gentle hand on his arm. Reassuring. That small touch seemed to calm him. That was all John wanted to do — reassure. Sherlock had given him more than he had to.

“It’s alright — really it is. I just can’t imagine someone as handsome as you, and as intelligent, hasn’t picked up even one girlfriend. Or boyfriend.” John watched the colour flood across Sherlock’s strong cheekbones. Even his blushing was dignified. And John was really touched, despite both their sudden and poignant awareness of the film crew. Sherlock didn’t have to do this now. But he did it anyway, even though it really didn’t matter. John didn’t care that Sherlock was inexperienced; he just wanted to make sure he was considerate tonight.

“While I’m flattered, John, I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who thinks that of me. Most people find my personality off-putting if not utterly offensive. And, if for some reason they don’t, I am inevitably not interested.” Sherlock paused and looked at John, as if searching for his reaction. “The fact that I am both interested in you and comfortable being with you is a very unusual occurrence. Coupled with the fact that you seem to actually _like_ who I am as a person, regardless of socially incorrect jokes and condescending banter and having what can be mildly put as a ‘mean streak’?  I will never have this again. I will never meet someone who fits so seamlessly into my life as you do. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I’ve never really felt this...happy.” Sherlock smiled softly like he was lost in some remembrance that John could almost touch. “I don’t think I could have that without you. There is a lot I don’t think I could ever have without you.”

The detective looked downward for just a moment, his words getting quieter, but the meaning amplifying through the air until John was almost drowning.

John wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. But he could feel the seriousness in Sherlock’s tone, the power of that statement. His heart was pounding in his chest, his palms sweating. This was reality. And John wanted it to be the same for him.

“There are a lot of things I could say right now, and none of them really have the weight I want them too. But if nothing else I want you to know that I...” Sherlock paused for a moment, and John could see the importance these words had. It seemed like the detective was actually taking his heart and placing it in John’s hands as he slowly continued, his eyes never leaving John’s. “John Watson, I love you.”

 Sherlock leaned in to kiss him gently, and went back to eating or at least poking his food around with his fork. John couldn’t eat. He was lost. Something warm was crawling its way up his throat. He thought it might be his heart, but the feeling was deafening the rest of his senses. He’d already heard this from the detective, but it was the first time he’d said it on camera, where the world could see it. And right now, that meant everything. He loved Sherlock so much, so incredibly much.

He wished he could reciprocate. Desperately. Instead, John pushed aside the remains of his dinner, and scrambled for his envelope. It was time to pass it over to Sherlock.

Definitely time.

Sherlock had stilled when he heard the rustling. He looked at John with a bit of fear, but he accepted the envelope cautiously.

“John and Sherlock,” he read carefully. “I hope you’re enjoying your day in the magical city of Venice. Should you choose to forgo your individual rooms, please use this key to stay as a _couple_ in the fantasy suite. Yours truly, Dave.”

John found it rather creepy that Dave wrote these invitations. He would have preferred to be the person doing the inviting. But he supposed it didn’t matter, as long as the message was the same.

Sherlock slowly twisted the key around in his fingers. Inspecting it.

“If you’re sure you want to, John.” He didn’t look up.

“I’m sure. As long as you want to.” Sherlock looked at him then. Something raw about his expression. John was caught in the piercing beauty of his eyes, stuck somewhere on a shard of Sherlock’s soul. At that moment, he never wanted to look anywhere else again.

“That’s not a question. Of course I do. But this is your decision.” Somehow this back and forth felt necessary. Like they had to reassure each other or they would always doubt their intentions. No matter what they had done before, this was important. This wasn’t some lust-filled whim. This was a conscious declaration.

 But Sherlock had said yes. And John definitely wanted this.

“It’s _our_ decision,” Sherlock didn’t respond, his face very carefully watching John’s looking for something. Not finding it. “And I want to. Definitely.”

“Alright, then.”

~

The suite they went to was gorgeous. As expected. It was called a fantasy suite for a reason. The walls were painted in shades of green — darker in the living area, lighter in the bedroom area — with gold and green floor length curtains draped beside the windows, and over the bed. The furniture was all Romanesque, gold-edged, and plush. Antique-looking.

The camera followed them through the suite, and out to the balcony, which gave them a breathtaking view of the Gulf of Venice.

“It’s beautiful,” John murmured, staring out at the dark water, the stars shining down on them. Sherlock leaned beside him, their hands clutched together, both of them too hyper-aware of the cameras tailing behind to think of being really romantic. It _was_ breathtaking. But it was also one of the tensest moments John could remember.

“Gorgeous,” Sherlock said, not looking at the gulf at all. He was staring at John, his eyes plaintive, scared, and really uncomfortable. Everything about this was uncomfortable, like they were dolls propped up on display. It was the most viscerally that he had felt the camera`s presence yet.

John pulled him close and placed a long, chaste kiss on his lips, holding them there for a few brief seconds, willing himself to forget everything but Sherlock for those few moments.

Afterwards, he straightened himself up and turned around sharply, addressing the cameraman directly.

“Look, I know you’re supposed to stick around for a while, but you’ve got your shot, you’ve got a kiss, and I really think you should leave now.” He was being firm. He had to be — this was theirs and theirs alone. The world couldn’t have this and he wasn’t about to share their romance with anyone. Tonight was about Sherlock and John — nothing else. And Sherlock had already given the world more information than they needed. Those cameras could fuck off for a few blessed hours.

“Please,” John added, quickly, trying to pacify the protest. He really just wanted them all to go. Just wanted Sherlock. “I think we could use some privacy.”

The cameraman looked like he would argue, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t technically allowed to. John knew that. But he nodded and backed out of the room. John waited until he heard the suite door close firmly behind the man. Then he put the chain on the door and collapsed on to the bed.

Sherlock slid in beside him. The bed was huge, but the consulting detective settled lightly against him, not quite touching. They both lay there for a moment, staring at the gold ceiling. John sighed.

“I’m really sorry for asking that earlier without thinking,” John said quietly, groping until he found Sherlock’s hand. He squeezed lightly. He knew Sherlock knew what he was talking about. He hadn’t forgotten that easily. “And I’m sorry for the cameras.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock snorted, letting go of John’s hand so that he could shift into a lounge, his head propped in his hand, his chest still pushing against John’s arm. “The cameras aren’t your fault. I mean, technically, yes, but apologizing for their presence is just silly. It will most likely be cut in the editing stage anyway. It’s a bit too frank for their audience.”

“I could have waited to ask, though,” John said, tilting his head to see Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s bemused smile and raised eyebrow greeted him.

“Stop worrying. It was a bit embarrassing but nothing more. I will get over it.” Sherlock sighed as John leaned up for a quick kiss. “There are far more engaging matters at hand, if you still want to do this.”

John shifted and propped himself up so he could look at Sherlock, face-to-face, immediately losing himself in the unintentional sensuousness of Sherlock’s lounging. The curve of his lithe body, even under clothes, was enthralling, his hips so narrow, his waist so smooth that he couldn’t help but want to be closer. He dragged his fingers along Sherlock’s chest, downwards, until his hand settled in the dip of Sherlock’s side.

“What would give you the impression that I don’t?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against John’s, whispering. “Nothing. But I don’t want you to feel pressured. This is fairly important and I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

John sighed and titled his chin forward, pressing his lips to Sherlock and softening into a kiss.

He pulled away examining the detective’s softly lit face before running a hand over his cheek. John wasn’t sure of much right now but he was sure he loved this man and he wanted to do this.

“I absolutely want to do this. No question. I’m far more worried about pressuring you.” John was being honest. If Sherlock wanted to back out now, he would understand. It was a huge leap. And he refused to hold any trepidation against him. This wasn’t just about what John wanted. It was about what _they_ wanted, about making a conscious decision in their relationship, about Sherlock. Everything in John’s world was about Sherlock right then.

Sherlock snorted. “Stop worrying and just do it. If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I still wanted to ask,” John murmured, a smile coming to his face. “I’m not going to rush into it on you this time. You’re sure you’re ready?”

“I’m ready,” Sherlock said with finality, his gaze holding John’s, honesty in his eyes. “ _Yes_ , John, I’m ready.”

That was enough for him. John leaned over and kissed Sherlock, rolling him onto his back, feeling graceful hands run down his spine, and twining his own hands in dark curls. There was a lot of friction, with Sherlock beneath him on the bed, every part of him touching every part of John. He could feel the softness of his shirt on top of the harsher lines of shoulders and clavicles and hip bones.

Even just this — lying on top of each other, kissing, feeling — was perfect. More than that, it was everything John had been craving for weeks. _Better_ than that — there was nothing to interrupt now, no brothers, no cameras watching, nothing to take away from their elation. He didn’t ever want to let go. He wasn’t sure he could let go. That would mean he’d have to stop the gentle pressure of Sherlock’s tongue against his, stop touching the wonderful man beneath him. He needed Sherlock, wanted to bring him even closer, wanted to never let this feeling stop. Everything was so strong and hazy with lust, almost as if he were a complete virgin, like he’d never had sex before this. He wanted more of that.

Propping himself on his elbows, his hands fumbled for buttons and Sherlock fumbled back. John felt his shirt being peeled off and pulled back just enough to oblige, shifting his weight onto one hand. Sherlock’s hands glided across his shoulders, giving him shivers and lingering on his scar. John watched the intensity in his eyes as the other man gently drew a finger across it. He shuddered. Just exposing his scar felt intimate. To have someone else touch it in a non-medical way was an expression of trust. And he trusted Sherlock. With everything.

The light in the other man’s eyes said everything. John sat still, letting him trace the outlines of his wound without protest, absorbing every bit of warmth Sherlock would give him, holding on to the feeling of each touch. He wanted him to know every crack, every inch of him. Letting him caress his scar was only the smallest tip of what John was going to give that night.

 A moment of examining in silence lead to Sherlock slipping out of his own unbuttoned shirt and pulling John close to him again, almost using him as a blanket against the cold. But Sherlock was warm. Which John had expected, but couldn’t seem to reconcile with his pale, white complexion. Every motion brought more heat to that marble skin, and John couldn’t get enough. He let his hands wander as he gently nipped at Sherlock’s neck, feeling bones just below skin, thin layers of muscle, and the just...smooth, smooth skin. He could feel his arousal growing. Everything about Sherlock was sexy, whether he realized it or not. The way he moved when John touched him, the moans he made as they pressed together, the light in his eyes when they fluttered open.

John was lost in that sensation, the curve of a ribcage, the sweep of his neck, the strength in his thin arms. Hands kept wandering, across his back, across his hips, even as John made his way slowly down the left side of Sherlock’s body, trailing his lips along Sherlock’s neck, moving still forward until he reached his nipple. And when he bent his head and licked it gently he felt Sherlock’s moan resonating in his own chest, and felt his hips twitch ever-so-slightly. The sensation of another body under him was amazing, but more so because it was _Sherlock_. Untouchable, beautiful Sherlock.

“Ah!” Sherlock gasped. John felt hands tighten on his back. So he bit again, suckled with a little more force and let Sherlock writhe beneath him. Every lap of his tongue or swipe of his teeth brought another groan, and a harder erection. Despite the carnality of it, John was lost emotionally. Sherlock was incredible, perfect, everything he wanted — this was so easy now that he was here. He knew he had wanted this badly, but he had never realized how desperately be _needed_ it. He needed those noises, the touches, the movements below him — he needed Sherlock. And he could feel Sherlock’s erection through their remaining clothes. He wasn’t going to waste this.

 His hand slipped along Sherlock’s waistband and paused over the bulge in his pants, letting the warmth of his hand cause the littlest bit of friction. Revelling in the sensation, the feeling of Sherlock’s cock under his hand for the first time, of passing a boundary that they’d been pushing toward for so long. A flush of lust tinged a bit with embarrassment flashed across Sherlock’s face as he gasped in a sharp breath, and jerked like a bolt of electricity had hit him. John saved his smirk for after he was done worrying.

“Too fast?” he asked. Sherlock shook his head violently, despite the blush. “Alright, then?”

“Very.” The hoarse rasp of that voice was like a chill down his spine, a warmth to his prick. He wanted to be careful, loving, and gentle, but he didn’t want to stop if Sherlock was ready.

The button to Sherlock’s trousers popped open easily. John softly cupped the other man’s erection, calmly and deliberately adjusting him to the sensation. His own cock burned for attention, but he was damn well going to start with Sherlock. The other man deserved some quality of consideration, and a very gentle introduction to gay sex. And sex in general. John knew what he liked; now he wanted to find out if Sherlock liked it too.

His hand stroked down the outside of the fabric, feeling the shape of Sherlock but not putting enough pressure in his fingers to give any form of satisfaction. Sherlock’s eyes flew open, then fluttered closed, lost in the sensation as John gently caressed, cheeks flushed, gasping loudly, all his muscles tightening and relaxing instantly. The pure lust on his face was intoxicating, and John felt himself being pulled into it.

After a moment of gently running his thumb over Sherlock, through fabric, the other man seemed to get fed up. Shoes were yanked off, and then he grabbed John’s waistband and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Off, John. We’re going to do this properly.” John smiled and obeyed, getting up to follow the detective, reaching to help Sherlock with his trousers as Sherlock fumbled with his. For a moment, they both struggled against each other, pulling off clothes while trying not to pull away. John’s hands were tucked in the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, pulling them towards his ankles, Sherlock’s arms tangled in his own as they both squirmed out of their clothing, standing at the foot of the bed in each other’s arms. As soon as clothes were off, however, Sherlock’s embarrassment rushed back, his expression changing, one hand going to cover himself. John wasn’t about to have that kind of modesty.

“Sherlock, don’t,” he whispered, grabbing is wrist and gently pulling it away, despite the bit of resistance. Sherlock nervously obliged, and John took his opportunity to trace his fingers across him and pull him close, whispering in his ear. “You’re beautiful. Stop worrying.”

The detective slowly relaxed into his arms, expression softening. “I’ll try.”

He took a moment to lay him on the bed, kissing him softly then guiding him gently down to the sheets, enjoying the view of Sherlock’s alabaster pale legs and hard cock. It was quite the sight to take in. Smooth skin, gorgeous body, lust-filled eyes...John was so turned on it ached. Propping himself on one elbow beside Sherlock, he trailed his fingers lightly along his narrow hips, across his firm abdomen, all down the soft hair on his thighs. Everything was perfect, and John couldn’t get enough. Sherlock was also caressing him, carefully, brushing his fingers along John’s chest like he was memorizing details and notes and waiting for them to become relevant. John hoped that he was half as exciting as Sherlock was.

But he didn’t let himself think for too long. He pushed closer, pulling Sherlock into a deep kiss, feeling the other man’s arms wrap around him, relishing every inch of skin on skin, every little molecule of friction. The way they moved, the feeling of each other scrambling for purchase, every little motion made them more desperate for each other. There were hands on his thighs, then his back, his hips, moving so slowly and yet quickly enough that the sensation was overwhelming. Their pricks pressed together as Sherlock’s fingers settled at the base of his neck, brushing the hairs there on end. Those touches only added to the throbbing in John’s groin. Tongues intertwined, their limbs tangling together as they both scrambled to feel everything, John felt the bony ridge of Sherlock’s pelvic bone, the outline of his ribs, the hardness of his nipples. Sherlock’s breathing was getting heavier as he choked back beautiful noises.

“ _Nnngh._ ”

The groans of quiet lust were the most beautiful sounds in the world, right now. John had to stop and pull away or they were both going to come before they had a chance to actually _do_ anything.

So he slowly, teasingly, trailed kisses down Sherlock’s chest. Pausing, every now and then, just to build tension, just to relish the liberties he was being allowed. It felt so good to have this, and just as good to watch the other man enjoying it. Sherlock gasped as he got lower, closer to his target. And then breathed in sharply when John wrapped his hand around the base of his cock.

John didn’t really know what he was doing. But he had enough research to back him up, and enough experience on the receiving end that he was pretty sure he knew a good sound when he heard it. And the hiss of pleasure Sherlock made when he started to work his tongue along the tip of him was definitely a good sound. Thankfully. He wasn’t really sure if he could have handled the disappointment of a bad sound. He so badly wanted this to be good.

 He dragged his tongue down Sherlock’s shaft. Placed sucking kisses everywhere. Swallowed him as far as he could, then ever so slowly sucked and dragged his mouth off. Everything he had heard people liked, everything he could think of having liked. And every time he was rewarded with an uncontrollable buck of Sherlock’s hips or a loud moan, he did it again. And again.

Turning his eyes upwards, John could just barely see Sherlock’s expression, hidden between dark curls and his tilted head. His lips were just slightly parted, redder than normal, syphoning breaths through to his gasping lungs. Eyes were closed, pressed tight as he lost himself to John’s mouth.

It felt like everything was moving in slow motion. Every breath was amplified as he gave Sherlock a reason to pant. Every slow stroke took a year to complete, his sensuous nerves taking too long to process each movement and change. But it was building. He could feel muscles contracting and things shifting beneath his tongue, subtle tenses and cues that he was reaching climax. John wanted to draw it out forever.

 “Oh god, John,” Sherlock groaned, writhing uncontrollably now. “John, John, _JOHN_...”

Sheets twisted in Sherlock’s fists and John concentrated on sucking even harder. Slowly. Quickly. Alternating, until Sherlock was thrusting into his mouth and screaming with pleasure and John tasted the salt of semen.

He swallowed, sharply, and kept his tongue moving until Sherlock started to go flaccid and limp. Then he sidled his way back up beside the other man, trailing his fingers upwards after him, feeling the shape of the detective’s abdomen. Sherlock nuzzled his shoulder.

“That was amazing.” Sherlock’s whisper sounded more like a loud gasp. “Incredible, John.”

John smirked, happy. Making Sherlock feel that good was all he could ask for. Even if his own prick was rock hard and throbbing for attention by now. “I’m glad you think so. I wasn’t sure you’d like it.”

“You’re obviously a moron, then.” Sherlock’s insult didn’t have any weight behind it as the detective tried to regain his breath. John brushed a smiling kiss against his cheekbone. Trying his best to ignore his needs for Sherlock’s afterglow. “Just give me a moment and I’ll try to do the same for you.”

“You don’t have to, you know.” But John was suppressing an embarrassing sound that might have been a whimper. The image of Sherlock sucking him off was more powerful than he had expected. As much as he’d like it though, blowjobs weren’t everyone’s cup of tea. He wasn’t going to ask Sherlock to do that. He wanted it to be good for both of them — not just his fantasies.

“I want to. But I apologize if I’m not very good at it.”

He didn’t look confident, which was sweetly charming. Wrapping Sherlock in his arms, John responded. “Anything you do will be great. Sex doesn’t have to be amazing to be good.”

“I just hope I’m not _bad_.” It was odd to see Sherlock nervous. He didn’t come off as a nervous man in any other respect. But in this one, in this one area, he seemed completely unsure. John didn’t get much of a chance to think about it, though, as Sherlock’s hand slipped down to John’s cock and stroked it firmly.

“Oh, Christ, _Sherlock_ ,” John gasped.

The friction almost blanked out his mind, losing him completely in the sensation. Enough of a distraction for Sherlock to slip through his arms and down to mouth the tip of him. And from there, it was a downhill slope. John found himself breathless and uncontrolled, Sherlock’s wicked expressions administering him with the best sensations he could find. It was all he could focus on. Everything had being replaced with Sherlock’s seductive glances and steady touches. It was _more_ than he could have wanted. More than he could have expected, and it was _perfect_.

Sherlock found nerve groupings and attacked them, overloading him with sensation, letting him feel the ache in his cock build and burn, and then backed away, and found something else to do. Taking him close to climax and then not giving it to him. Repeatedly.

The image of Sherlock, eyelashes rested lightly on his cheekbones, mouth formed into a perfect circle, gaze averted, flamed every emotion he had felt. His hands were moving without him, clasping in soft hair, scrabbling along smooth shoulders, grabbing at every little bit of contact. It was _so_ good. Better than he had pictured, if only because it was Sherlock. He had wanted this for so long.

“Oh, Sherlock, fuck, _please_.” John felt himself begging and twitching and calling Sherlock’s name.

He barely had the sense to babble. He couldn’t think of anything but that warm mouth, the beautiful man it was attached to and the sensations on his cock. Pleasure was _far_ too weak of a word. Everything was concentrated on what Sherlock was doing and how close he was coming to the edge.

“Oh god, _SHERLOCK_!”

His climax rushed through him, harder than he had expected. He couldn’t think, or hear, or control himself it was so intense — grabbing Sherlock and sinking his fingers into the other man’s shoulders without thinking. All of his senses were gone, eyes closed, without a thought for what was going on outside of _them_ and _sex_. As he finished, he felt all his muscles seize and release, easing him into bliss. Basking in the joy, he opened his eyes — and drank in the handsome sight of a very relieved Sherlock. Then the other man rolled over to the side of the bed and quickly spat on the floor before squirming back into John’s arms.

He smiled slightly. Trust Sherlock to make spitting semen out endearing.

 “I thought you said you didn’t have any experience,” John joked. “You’re sure you weren’t lying?”

“Positive.” Sherlock smiled. “I’m surprised I could make you come.”

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You did fantastic.”

“Good.” The relief in his voice was palpable. “I’m glad.”

It was comfortable holding Sherlock like that. The heat of his body soaked into John’s, his smooth arms wrapped tight around his waist like he was holding on for dear life. Like he’d lose him if he let go. It was sweet and comfortable, like they’d always held each other that way. Familiar.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” John murmured. A silken caress down Sherlock’s side. He almost blushed, or would have if he hadn’t already been flushed from sex.

“If you say so,” he whispered back, obviously not convinced. Sherlock was warm and close, his heart beating so hard that John could feel it in his chest. “As long as you think so, that’s enough for me.”

John frowned, rubbing a socked foot softly up Sherlock’s leg. The consulting detective shivered. “Stop it. You’re amazing. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock nuzzled his smile into the base of John’s throat. John smiled too, softly tracing the edges of Sherlock’s ribs, just feeling him breathe under his fingertips. The man was so thin, so delicately framed. Not fragile, just delicate, like every detail had been sculpted in minute perfection. John could feel Sherlock’s fingers on his back, but he was so much thicker, stouter, not as much muscular as he was sturdy, but Sherlock’s light touches felt like they sunk to the core him. The softest drag of a nail on his skin sent shivers down his spine.

He found himself exploring Sherlock’s body, looking for freckles, scars, anything interesting, or uniquely Sherlock. Things no one had seen before — like the small freckle beside his tailbone, pale and almost unnoticeable that John drew his hand over. He slid down Sherlock’s body, kissing another pale freckle on his stomach, moving slowly across his hip, nibbling on his hip bone.

Sherlock’s hand twined in his hair, not guiding him, simply keeping him close, feeling along his scalp. It felt so surreal and blissful, being this close, not having to think about clothes, or cameras, or anything outside of Sherlock and himself. They could just lay there, touching and exploring, happy with each other, happy with the world. Happy with the feel of skin on skin and the friction that contact caused.

He could feel his erection coming back, slowly but surely, as he examined every inch of Sherlock’s body. He could feel his muscles twitch, still excited by the sex in the air, still excited by all of Sherlock. And Sherlock’s blue-gray eyes were hazy as John felt his way back up for a slow, intoxicating, lustful kiss.

Sherlock wiggled beneath him, his lips parting to gasp for air, barely leaving John’s mouth even to breathe. Their hands trailed slowly across each other, both of them moving to get closer, closer than they possibly could, chests pushing against each other. John found a purchase on Sherlock’s hips, pulling him closer, grinding them together, creating as much friction as possible, drinking in as much of the sensation as he could.

“Ah,” Sherlock gasped, not really forming a word, just pulling away long enough to catch his breath. With more than a hint of delight, John took note that the detective was already hard again. That was flattering, to say the least.

 They lay for another moment, just caressing and kissing and enjoying each other, Sherlock hard and John getting there again before John said anything.

“Um, there are...other things we could try, if you want?” He was sure he looked sheepish. He wasn’t sure how open Sherlock was to these ideas. But obviously they were both still ready to go. “I mean, if you’re interested.”

“John,” Sherlock said calmly, without a hint of trepidation, “at this point, I will try _anything_ you want. Did you bring lube?”

John rolled over and opened the table drawer beside the bed. There was lube. Thankfully. And condoms. “Yes, it looks like they brought us some.”

Sherlock blushed, but he didn’t seem deterred. “Well, I suppose that’s a good thing.”

“There are condoms too, if you want?”

“Do I look like I can get pregnant?” Sherlock retorted, managing to look disdainful even with a hard on. “We’ve all been tested for literally everything under the sun, and apparently we are all disease-free. Unless you’ve been sleeping with random people in the last two months, condoms are unnecessary.”

“No, nothing like that,” John said with a smile. “I’ll skip the condom then.”

“Alright. And I warn you, this is all up to you. I have only the vaguest idea of how this works.”

John nodded. He had figured that. And it would be easier for him to lead, anyways. Easier for him to ‘top’, as they said. He was a doctor. At the very least, he knew he wouldn’t hurt Sherlock. And, yeah, he wanted to try it. With Sherlock. Right now.

“That’s fine. As long as you’re sure.” Of course, wanting to very badly didn’t mean that he couldn’t be timid. He wanted _Sherlock_ to want this, too.

“Yes, John, I am _sure_.” Sherlock’s exasperated tone came with a small smile. “Nervous, but sure. You can stop asking.”

“Alright.” He smiled back, reassured.

 John squeezed some lube on to his fingers and rubbed his hands together, warming it, and making sure all his fingers were coated. Then, raising an eyebrow and never dropping his gaze, he wrapped one hand around Sherlock’s cock and stroked. He had a feeling that this would be all about distraction. If Sherlock was busy feeling good, he wouldn’t be as tense. If John could make Sherlock feel good, _he_ wouldn’t be as tense.

 They were face to face, John kneeling between Sherlock’s legs for the best angle, when John started rubbing. Firm strokes gliding sensuously up and down, bringing out little gasps and moans as they got into it. John dedicated a few minutes to slow motion, feeling the throbbing under his hands as Sherlock gently relaxed. But that rapidly disappeared as he dropped one hand to trace the edges of his entrance, gently adjusting him to the sensation.

Sherlock stiffened sharply, forehead creasing, obviously trying to ignore what he was feeling.

“Are you alright?” John asked. He didn’t want to do anything uncomfortable. At all. This was going to be good, damn it.

“Yes,” Sherlock rasped, his muscles slowly relaxing. John could almost hear the creak of muscle tension. “Just let me adjust. Go slowly and I’ll be fine.”

“Alright. I’ll be gentle.” John worked his fingers at the base of Sherlock’s cock and the other man groaned, just as planned. He felt the muscles unwind with every motion. Excellent. Distractions were helping.

He stroked particularly quickly, up and down, when he slipped his first finger in. Sherlock’s muscles tried to clench but immediately relaxed. Good. He didn’t stop stroking Sherlock’s cock, but held his other hand very still. Careful. He wanted to let everything adjust to the sensation, including him.

 He had to adjust to the fact that this was actually happening. While he’d been thinking about it all week, it still felt surreal, Sherlock’s muscles tensing around his finger, their flesh pressed together, John’s cock straining while he worked Sherlock’s. But it _was_ real, and that finger inside Sherlock was _sexy_. No denying it.

 John let himself slowly thrust his finger in and out, stretching gently as he went, and keeping up his distraction. Sherlock was very, very gradually relaxing, almost wriggling as John moved. Like he was enjoying it but was not quite comfortable yet. The steady, careful hand on his prick was giving him enough distraction without pushing him too far over the edge. As Sherlock’s muscles let go, he let John stretch him further. Calmly, surely, he slipped in a second finger. When Sherlock didn’t protest, John pushed them in a little further, and crooked them — at just the right angle to hit Sherlock’s prostate. Being a doctor had its benefits.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Sherlock said breathlessly, writhing involuntarily. John smiled and did it again. “Ah!”

“Feels good?” He was feeling just a little wicked. That gleeful, amazing kind of wicked that came with great sex.

“ _Yes_.” Sherlock didn’t even have the composure to argue. John kept stroking him slowly, inside and out, and slid in a third finger. Slowly stretching, and working, and pressing against Sherlock’s prostate. The consulting detective’s hips jerked suddenly; he shut his eyes. John took a moment to enjoy how flushed Sherlock was, marveling at how fucking perfect he was, this was, _everything_ was right now. He could feel his own cock twitch and ache, begging to be touched like Sherlock was being touched, goaded by the lustful, debauched man beneath him.

“John, if you don’t hurry up, I’m going to come before you get a chance to do anything to me.” Every word was breathy, as Sherlock twisted and John felt him shudder around his fingers.

“I thought we were going slowly?” John smiled a bit, but stopped stroking. He pulled his fingers out, grabbed the lube and squeezed some onto his hand. With all the self-control he could muster, he very carefully stroked his prick, feeling Sherlock’s eyes burning with desire as he coated himself with the lube. Everything felt amplified, stronger, his fingers clumsy, as he began to shift closer to Sherlock accidently brushing their cocks together, both of them gasping at the contact. After a second, he managed to position himself at a better angle, barely restraining himself as he settled between Sherlock’s legs. “Are you sure this is alright?”

Sherlock half-heartedly glared at him. “If you ask me that one more time, John, I swear...”

He didn’t finish, though. John had very carefully begun to push forwards and in. Sherlock bit his lip, but said nothing. John’s actions were slower than a crawl, letting the detective adjust every step of the way. Letting him breathe. Listening for any hiss of pain. He was _not_ going to hurt Sherlock with this. Even though every inch was tight, wonderful pressure, just where he needed it, even though he could barely hold on to anything other than sheer, unyielding _want_ , he had to keep control of himself.

Once he was fully sheathed he paused. Sherlock leaned up and kissed him, and John felt the other man relax. The movement of muscles around his cock, the soft feeling of Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth. The tense, wet, warm movements, so small and yet so monumental, sending a shudder of pleasure through him. Fuck, it felt _incredible_.

They very slowly lay back against the bed and for a few moments they stayed there, as close to each other as it was physically possible to be, feeling each other’s breath as if it were their own, lost in each other’s touch, as Sherlock adjusted to John’s prick inside him.

“I think it’s okay if you move now,” came the raspy, shaking murmur. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, as John’s hand came back to his cock. John began thrusting. Slowly at first, searching for the right angle. It was a lot easier to find the prostate with fingers than a penis. John wasn’t sure if that was a life lesson, but he was certainly glad he tried to find it anyway. When he hit the right spot, Sherlock let out a wanton moan, and John abandoned any worries he might have had.

The next thrust was a bit harder, a little faster, and the angle was off again. John tried to bring his focus back from the wonderful, overwhelming sensation on his prick and adjust his motions. The next time he could feel Sherlock clench around him as he hit his prostate, and all the blood in him rushed down to his groin. He went again, harder, a bit faster, working up speed as Sherlock’s hips bucked beneath him. It was perfect, being inside Sherlock, like they had completed some sort of masterpiece. And Sherlock was lost in it, pushing back against John, bucking into John’s hand, fingernails biting into John’s back, driving him over the edge, speeding up his movements as he clung to Sherlock like he could never let go.

The two of them thrust together furiously, John’s hand working on Sherlock’s cock, and his brain doing its best to keep control. The sensation of Sherlock’s muscles working around him, as he tried to hit the right angle with every thrust, overwhelmed him. It was intense, wonderful, and heady. And every squirm and involuntary spasm made it better. Sherlock was whimpering — in a good way — and rocking back to meet John’s thrusts. They moved together amazingly well for two people who hadn’t done this before. Instinct and compatibility, John supposed. But he didn’t have the brain power to think more than that. Thinking was really hard when having extremely gratifying sex with a man you loved dearly and had lusted after for a while.

“ _John_...” Sherlock gasped, his head tossing back as his hips bucked hard into John’s hand. He could feel everything tightening around his cock, all of Sherlock resisting pliably as he thrust deeper into him. Sherlock tensed, the contraction starting from his thighs, working its way up to his abdomen through John’s prick. Every little twitch was exaggerated by the pressure, every buck, every twist brought them still closer and Sherlock’s fingers were leaving scratches down John’s back. Everything in him seemed to be pulling John deeper as Sherlock arched hard into him. Writhing against John forcefully, impaling himself further. Sherlock’s moans got louder as he seemed no longer able to suppress them.

“ _Nnn_... _fuck_ , John, JOHN...” Before those words, John had already been on the verge of coming. Feeling Sherlock tighten even more around him, feeling his cock twitch in John’s hand, the liquid warmth spattering on his chest, seeing the detective’s eyes tightly shut in pure pleasure as his entire body convulsed roughly against John in absolute ecstasy, hearing his name on Sherlock’s lips — John was drowning in Sherlock’s very intense orgasm, losing control of himself, babbling.

“ _Aaaah_ , Sherlock, it’s so _good_ ,” he heard himself murmur, not caring about the words as he thrust with abandon, feeling Sherlock’s muscles still moving around his prick with the aftershocks of the other man’s climax. He felt it building, felt his toes curl into the sheets as his balls tightened and everything in him screamed with the gratification in the sensation.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John moaned as his eyes closed and his cock exploded, as he spilled out and into Sherlock, all of his attention rushing downwards. He came with so much force that he could feel the spasms wracking through his body, his forehead resting beside Sherlock’s cheek, his teeth sunk into Sherlock’s collarbone, stifling his scream. For a few seconds after it ended all he could do was lie limply on top of Sherlock, limbs tangled, hearts thudding in their chests, echoing each other’s heartbeats.

When he finally pulled his head up, he was treated to a truly incredible sight. Disheveled hair, limbs loose and sprawled, Sherlock looked like a freshly debauched Adonis. And it was hot, and satisfying, and incredibly gorgeous. The other man was flushed, and sweaty, breathing heavily, and it was still amazing. Sex only made Sherlock more beautiful. John kissed him tenderly and deeply lips clinging together, before he slid out carefully, shifting to avoid disturbing Sherlock’s very limp body. The other man smiled and rolled just the slightest bit, so that he could settle in John’s arms.

They lay there in silence for a while, just panting, just catching their breath, coming back to reality. John could feel the love beating in his chest, overwhelming the sensations, thudding with the precision of a heartbeat. Sherlock melted into him, soft despite all the bony edges, fitting in right beside him, tucked in just where John wanted him to be. It was everything John had hoped it would be — seamless and natural, incredibly good. Really, really wonderful. Incredible. John didn’t think there were enough words in the world to describe how amazing that was.

He smiled at the thought, before glancing to the sudden uncomfortable feeling of his feet.

 “I left my socks on,” he murmured, half-laughing. Sherlock broke into a guffaw.

“ _That’s_ what’s on your mind? Not, ‘I’m thoroughly debauched’ or ‘I haven’t just _taken_ your rose, Sherlock, I’ve annihilated it.’” Sherlock’s sarcastic statements made his smile even wider. “Just ‘I left my socks on.’ John Watson, you are _priceless_.”

“I just noticed now, is all,” John replied. “I assume the fact that I’m thoroughly debauched is a given.”

“Well, I would hope so,” Sherlock said in a miffed tone. He was smiling, though. “That was _excellent_.”

“Excellent barely covers it. I’m fairly certain that I’ve never had sex this good.” John smiled. That admission was completely honest. He wasn’t sure he knew how to describe it — the sex had been incredible, yes, but the power of it came from something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was good because it was Sherlock. And now, he was happy to just lie there, holding Sherlock close, enjoying the afterglow of utterly fantastic sex.

“Really?” Sherlock murmured in skepticism. Like he wanted to believe John, but wasn’t sure he could.

 “Really,” John confirmed, honesty ringing in his tone. “I hope you felt it as much as I did.”

“I didn’t think anything involving genitalia could feel that good. Ever.” Those beautiful blue-grey eyes were shining. “You could have warned me that you were a sex god.”

John stuttered into modest laughter. “ _Hardly_ , Mister Holmes.”

“I’ve been downgraded to surnames? After that? I must have been horrible.” Sherlock winked and nestled closer as John swatted him. “Either that or you’re being sarcastic.”

“If I was _half_ as amazing as you were, I think I did well.” John couldn’t keep his hands from twining in Sherlock’s hair. “So stop worrying.”

“That was incredible, John. You can stop being modest any time now,” Sherlock huffed, not bothering to raise his head. “That was the best first time I could have asked for.”

“Well, good. I spent a lot of time trying to make that perfect for you.”

“You did.”

The whisper almost disappeared, but he could hear it. Smiling, he ran his socked toes up Sherlock’s legs. It was starting to get cool — more so because of the sweat evaporating off their bodies. He hadn’t even noticed that they were sweating before this.

Sherlock shivered a bit, really feeling the evening breeze for the first time.

“I’m glad,” John murmured, pulling closer. The happiness wasn’t fading, even if the warmth was. “I love you, Sherlock.”

That last phrase had all the weight John could put behind it.

“I love you, John.” Sherlock looked up at him and caught his eyes. John could see in them that Sherlock was doing the same with his words, putting everything into them. Giving John everything.

There was a moment of comfortable silence before Sherlock struggled against a yawn. He stretched a bit, clearly trying to straighten out his back. “Thank you.”

“For what?” John laughed.

“More than I can say.”

“You’re welcome, always,” John said squeezing him tight. He didn’t know what he needed to be thanked for. He wasn’t that great. But he didn’t protest. Sherlock was starting to look tired, the circles under his eyes darkening as he relaxed in John’s arms. “Don’t fall asleep yet. We need to clean up.”

“Hm?” Sherlock didn’t respond so much as he watched John struggle to his feet and stumble to the bathroom. Wetting a towel, he cleaned off his chest then soaked a new one to bring back to Sherlock. His legs weren’t quite steady yet, but he made it back to the bed without incident.

“Here.” He passed Sherlock the towel who held it for a minute, just looking at it, while John laid back down. Sherlock very carefully cleaned himself off and unceremoniously tossed the towel onto the floor before nuzzling into John’s shoulder. “We should probably get _under_ the covers.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock murmured, not even budging. “But it’s too much effort.”

“Stop that,” John laughed, pulling back and shaking Sherlock a bit. “Come on, before you get a chill.”

John had to wrestle with the covers to get them both under them. They tangled themselves together, Sherlock’s head resting gently on John’s chest. The taller man had curled himself around John, and hooked their legs together. It felt warm. Comfortable. And natural.

John hadn’t expected it to be as easy and natural as it was. The two of them fit in each other’s arms, and it felt right. Fuck gender, fuck social expectations, fuck the fact that this whole thing should have been more awkward and less amazing. This was perfect.

That was his last thought as he drifted off to sleep.

~

Waking up beside Sherlock felt wonderful. Having him there, their thighs just barely touching — like Sherlock was almost afraid of being too close but couldn’t bring himself to be too far away — stirred something warm inside him. Affection. John watched the rise and fall of the other man’s chest as he breathed, how his dark curls rested across his forehead, how his face looked so beautiful in its stillness, just as much as it did when Sherlock smiled. He wanted to lay there forever and not go out into the world. But he couldn’t.

Sherlock was sleeping heavily still. Probably exhausted from whatever emotional gambit he had to deal with in the last week. With the sun falling across his pale skin, he looked so peaceful and perfect and precise. He wasn’t sure how it was possible that anyone was this perfect. This desirable. Or ever so hard to resist. He felt awful about even the idea of waking him up, but John only had an hour or so, and all he wanted was to spend a little more time together. So he decided to awaken him in the gentlest way possible.

He wrapped his arms around the other man and stroked his hands down his torso, while breathlessly kissing him. Softly, though, not too much pressure. Indulgent, and slow, and careful, watching as Sherlock stirred beneath his caresses. Striking eyes fluttering open, the consulting detective immediately squinted and yawned. Then leaned in to return John’s kisses. And his caresses.

The only noises were the wet sounds of kissing. It was softer than last night, more emotional — all John could think of was the creamy drag of his fingers across Sherlock’s skin and the sickly sweet taste of his mouth in the morning. Unbrushed teeth didn’t matter when everything felt this good.

His hands slid gently along Sherlock’s sides, not in a hurry, just languidly touching everything within reach. Throaty noises from Sherlock encouraged him to tease his fingers lightly across Sherlock’s stomach, bring one hand up to pinch a nipple. That brought a grab from the other man, sharply digging into John’s back, pulling him closer.

With a bit of curiosity, John kissed his way down Sherlock’s neck, focusing on a spot just above where it turned into collarbone. He was rewarded by a hiss and gasp.

“ _Ah_ , John...” Sherlock moaned as John bit down harder, sucking deeply, bruising the pale, sensitive skin as Sherlock writhed with the pleasure. Enticed, John slid his tongue over the same spot, listening to Sherlock’s moan, savouring the sounds, the feeling of the body under him while Sherlock’s hands scrabbled for purchase.

As something tickled across his hipbone, John suppressed his groan. He hadn’t realized he was _this_ aroused. His cock was hardening fast, and every shift rubbed it more. Reaching down, he cupped Sherlock to the symphony of panting and made sure they were both ready for more. They were.

Sherlock thrust against his hand, rubbing almost wantonly. Or groggily. John wasn’t quite sure at this point, but he liked it. He loved anything that involved both him and Sherlock. All he needed was Sherlock’s caress and Sherlock’s hand on his back and the friction of their hips grinding together while they both enjoyed the feeling of being this close.

After that moment of writhing, John broke away long enough to grab the lube. He slicked them both up hastily, not thinking too much about the details. And, without worrying about coordination, pressed himself against Sherlock. They didn’t need much. Just John’s hand wrapping around both their cocks and a rhythm. They had that.

Thrusting slickly against each other, gasping between kisses, the friction was just enough to make John want more. Just enough to make Sherlock thrust a bit harder. Just enough for the two of them to need air and movement. The sound of their laboured breathing was enough to fill the room. The slick feeling of having their cocks pressed together, with enough friction and enough slickness to keep the motion going with plenty of pleasure. John wasn’t sure which way was up, but he knew that he couldn’t possibly stop moving.

The gasp for air beside his ear ended as a throb in his chest. Even Sherlock’s sex noises were incredible. Even the babble of his name and swearing and nonsense sounded like music.

“Oh, _John_ , fuck,” Sherlock murmured, the soundtrack to their movements. “John...”

John found himself surrounded by the sound of Sherlock’s voice, threw himself into the motion, put as much friction as possible between them, letting them both feel each other hard and wanting and desperate. They were getting close, pricks warm under his hand, bodies tensing with the pleasure.

Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder, his fingers biting into John’s back, panting heavily as the two of them rocked furiously. John let his head go back as the pressure built. It was like all his muscles, all his nerves were focused on one sensation, one area, one experience. They were all getting him lost in the amazingness that was Sherlock.

It felt like an explosion when he came. Everything curled together inside of him and pushed outwards, sending his consciousness hurtling after it. He came with abandon, thrusting hard against Sherlock, feeling the other man buck with the pressure, feeling him tense as John released everything inside him. And Sherlock wasn’t far after, two thrusts of heavy, biting orgasm. His prick twitched against John’s as he came, and Sherlock pulled himself closer, grabbing desperately at John and biting down hard to stifle his scream. John basked in the clench of teeth on his collarbone, the sweet, numb pain. Energy fading, the two of them sunk back into the sheets, sweaty and sticky, still clinging to each other.

“Good morning to you, too,” Sherlock murmured, still panting. Even the glisten of sweat was gorgeous. “I think I’m awake now.”

“Good,” John breathed. He found himself cradling Sherlock’s face, without thinking twice, lost in his happiness. “I’ve got to go in...” He glanced to the clock. “...another forty minutes. And I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

Sherlock laughed, hoarsely. “Well, good. I’m glad I’m not a fuck-and-run.”

John smiled and leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock kissed back, sweetly, tenderly, slowly. Then pulled away to stretch, sliding to edge of the bed and straightening his arms out in front of him, turning his wrists as he arched his back. John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sensuous movement. The light danced across his side fading into the shadow that still held most of the room — chiaroscuro at its finest, dramatizing its best subject. The consulting detective looked like artwork, something untouchable, alluring, masterful, precise. More than real.

“I don’t know what you did,” Sherlock murmured, twisting to level a raised eyebrow at John, “but my back is screaming and I don’t think I’ll be able to walk straight today.”

“Are you alright?” John asked, worried. “Do you want me to take a look at it?”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock smiled. “It’s just pulled muscles I didn’t know I had.”

“Sorry,” he said with no remorse whatsoever. “At least it was worth the aches?”

“It most certainly was,” Sherlock agreed as John sidled up next to him to the edge of the bed, planting a kiss on his lips. “Thank you for that.”

“For all your aches?” John laughed, sliding his arm around the other man’s waist. “Thank _you_. For your scratches and everything else.”

Worry now passed over Sherlock’s face as he leaned backwards to peer at the scratches. John couldn’t see them but he was sure they were scattered across his back, still stinging from last night. Sherlock’s thin fingers traced the outline of a couple of them, forehead creased, touch lighter than a feather, sending shivers up John’s spine.

“Do they hurt?” Sherlock asked quietly. “I’m sorry, John. I should have been more careful.”

“Don’t be sorry.” John smiled, bringing Sherlock’s hands and eyes away from the scratches and back to him. “I loved it.”

Sherlock stilled, lips slightly parted, breathing silently and slowly for just an instant before he responded.

“I love you.”

 John felt himself shiver, his smile turning melancholy.

“I love you too, Sherlock.” He loved him and he wished he could stay there all morning. Instead, he leaned over and pulled Sherlock closer, wrapping him fully in his arms, kissing him deeply with all the love he could put into it.

They pulled back, smiling again, the mood shifting back towards happiness. John ran his hands down Sherlock’s side, lightly tracing his ribs, not quite tickling.

“Stop that,” Sherlock chided, playfully batting away John’s hands. “We’d better get up.”

 He rolled out of the bed quickly, the sheet dragging after him. John would have drunk in the sight, if the sheet hadn’t become a toga in those two seconds. Frowning, he reached out and tugged it back, only to have Sherlock stop him.

“Where are my clothes?” the detective murmured, adding a kiss to the request.

“Sherlock, I’ve already seen you naked.” John yawned pretty deeply as he stretched. “You don’t have to get dressed immediately.”

“Unlike someone, I’m not particularly confident about walking around naked.” He frowned as John stretched and stood, just a bit closer than he would have before. “Clothes?”

John pushed the sheet down quickly, surprising him. Wrapping him closely, pressing their naked bodies together, he whispered, “You’re too beautiful for clothes.”

“And you’re the only one who thinks that,” Sherlock said with a huff.

“Am not,” John said with a smile. “But I’m just the only one who’s gotten to tell you as much.”

“You are that,” Sherlock agreed.

There were two matching smiles after, that melted to a kiss. Sherlock’s lips were warm and soft and delicious — John had never tasted anything better. He wanted that kiss to last all day and all night. To keep him from the world.

“I need to get dressed.” But the smile was still on Sherlock’s face as he searched the floor. Eventually he found his trousers tucked under a chair and slid them on. John did the same, trying to find something presentable before he got ready to leave. He wasn’t really sure how he was going to face Sarah after a night like that, but he knew he had to. At least for now he could still bask in the love he was feeling.

 Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom.

“JOHN,” came the very loud exclamation. “Were you going to mention the gigantic bruise on my neck or just hope I didn’t notice?”

John burst into laughter. He was sure Sherlock would live.

~

John freshened up, stopped back at his normal hotel room for a change of clothes, and immediately went back out. He felt incredibly guilty on his way to see Sarah. He had just had a fantastic night. He was supposed to do it again with her. And he felt nauseous. Not because he regretted having sex with Sherlock. That was _not_ it at all. In the slightest. He just couldn’t feel good about having fantastic sex with a person he loved and then immediately going out to do something similar with Sarah.

He wasn’t quite sure where he stood, emotionally or ethically. With Sherlock he hadn’t thought of anything else but the two of them, their closeness, how everything felt exactly right. And it had been really hard to leave him that morning, even with the prospect of seeing Sarah. Everything in him wanted to still be back in that hotel room, lounging around and tracing the small marks on Sherlock’s body. It had been so comfortable and easy, genuine.

He wondered if it would be the same with Sarah.

She met him at a corner, just an ordinary street corner. She looked beautiful — soft, brown hair, a glowing smile, and a pretty blue dress on. John smiled back instantly, more reflexively than with the sincerity he wanted.

“Good morning, John,” she murmured, giving him a kiss. On the lips that had kissed Sherlock that morning.

“Morning,” he returned. He took her hand, all soft palms and manicured nails. “Are you ready to see where we’re going?”

“Lead away. I’d love to see.” She was being reassuring, at least. John had been irrationally terrified that she’d see everything he’d just done that morning — last night — everything he really shouldn’t have been thinking about with her. The ache in his lower back was haunting him, like Sherlock had followed him instead of heading back to his room.

He led her around the corner and down the small cobbled street. Waiting for them at the end of the avenue was a short dock, and a gondola.

“Oh my gosh,” Sarah whispered softly, clearly delighted. John was glad. He wanted her to smile. He needed that smile to let him forget his guilt today.

“Would you like to take a ride, _madame_?” He offered her a hand and helped her step on to the boat.

~

The gondolier was singing _Santa Lucia_ in an echoing voice; not so loud that they couldn’t talk, but loud enough that it made a perfect backdrop. Sweet. Like Sarah.

He and Sarah were cuddled together on their end of the boat. And John was trying to relax, he really was. But he couldn’t get his mind to stay away from the last twenty-four hours. Every once in a while, an image of dark curls danced across his vision, and John would turn his head, trying to see those blue-grey eyes. And then he’d realize that Sherlock wasn’t there and he was supposed to be paying attention to Sarah. Supposed to be focusing on his relationship with her.

But Sarah was as perfect as always. She didn’t ask him about the night before or talk about the possibilities for tonight. She just wanted to talk about him. So he let her lead the conversation and tried to forget exactly what he was doing to her.

“You’ve just been so wonderful, John,” she was saying. “Every minute has been perfect. And when you’re not here, I think about you constantly. I want you to be happy with me.”

“I am. You do make me happy, Sarah.” She did. He loved spending time with her. It was easy and comfortable and just what he had always figured a couple should be. Every moment. But he wasn’t sure how to express that to her. Or to reconcile it with Sherlock. He would turn to look at Sarah, and almost see him sitting there in her place, Chesire grin and all. Just waiting for John to kiss him, touch him. Then just as suddenly he was gone and Sarah was there along with a brand new knot in his stomach.

“I’m glad,” she sighed. “I can see us in a future together. A nice flat, or a house, and a steady life. Maybe a few kids later on. Just...a good life. I think a life with you would be a good life.”

He could see the tears in her eyes, and he felt his heartstrings pulling. She described something he had always sort of pictured himself in. The basic, comfortable ideal. There was nothing to not like about that picture. And it was nothing like the slightly dishevelled flat and its erratic, captivating consulting detective.

He pulled her closer, taking her hand in his. He wanted her to see that he was earnest.

“That sounds great. I think that’s definitely what it would be. A good life.” He felt her lay against him, and he let her relax into his arms. He tried not to compare how she felt to how Sherlock did. Tried not to think of how soft and curving her body was, softer, gentler than the sharp angles of Sherlock’s body. Tried not to think of how different she felt in his embrace.  “I can see that. I think a relationship between us would work fantastically.”

“Of course it would work,” she laughed. “I don’t think that’s even a question, John.”

Her assurance was stronger than John had expected. She was right, though. It wasn’t a question. Sarah was perfect. Life with her would be amazing and everything your typical heterosexual married relationship was supposed to be. She was everything he was expecting out of his future.

She was not an unexpected dash about London, or the surprise of fingers in the fridge.

“You’re right,” he replied, feeling reassured. He needed to focus on Sarah. Not Sherlock. Just Sarah. “I don’t think it’s a question. I just want to make sure it’s what you want.”

“John.” He hadn’t heard Sarah’s serious voice before. She looked him in the eye, brought his focus back to her. Right where it needed to be. “There is nothing that I could want more.”

John smiled. Sincerity was more than he could ask for. To get so much honesty and certainty in a situation where emotions were everywhere was amazing. He wasn’t sure where Sarah got that kind of authority but he appreciated it. She wanted this. And only this.

“I’m glad, Sarah,” he whispered, kissing her gently. “I love that you can say that with such conviction.”

“I hope in another few days, you can say it too,” she murmured, leaning against him. Her eyes fluttered closed. “That would be my fairy tale ending.”

“I hope so too,” John whispered. But he wasn’t sure. Suddenly the detective’s presence was palpable again, even though he wasn’t there, like a touch that lingers on the skin. Touches on _his_ skin, a mouth against his collarbone. The words ‘I love you’ murmured into his ear. He really wasn’t sure. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Nothing you do would disappoint me, John. I love you. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy too.”

As much as John wanted to believe that, he couldn’t. Unrequited love hurt. No matter how much you wanted the other person to be happy.

“... _Su passegieri, venite via_!” sang the gondolier. Somehow the romantic background felt irreverent. “ _Sa-anta Luci-ia! Saaantaaaaaaa Lucii-i-ia_!”

Sarah sighed contentedly and smiled into his shoulder as they passed under _Ponte dei Sospiri_.

And John was looking out at the water from those overwrought windows, not paying attention to the crappy view because there were hands on his hips, lips on his, Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth, grounding him. He was breathless, overwhelmed, grabbing for purchase, holding on for dear life. And Sherlock was there, close. Where he wanted him to be.

As the bridge passed behind them and the gondola moved on down the canal, Sarah gently leaned up and kissed him, tenderly, sweetly, slowly.

And John kissed back, though he didn’t know who he was kissing anymore.

~

They spent most of the day on the boat, idly chatting, and taking in the sunshine. John lapped it up, and Sarah seemed to bask in his attentions. She didn’t care if she was only one of two people he was dating. She didn’t care what he was feeling guilty over. And she didn’t care if he had slept with Sherlock. She would accept whatever he did. And that was exactly what John needed to get through this date.

It was exactly what he needed to keep going.

They disembarked late in the afternoon, Sarah clinging to his hand as he helped her out.

“That was such a beautiful ride,” she purred, softly. John could see the happiness on her face, just shining out. She was perfectly content with him, and he couldn’t help but love it.

“It really was. I’m glad we went.” They started the walk down the picturesque streets. John was searching for gelato. A nice way to round out the afternoon. Gelato and a walk.

“So am I. Venice is such a beautiful place to explore. It’s so great to actually be here.”

“Yeah.” John sighed. It was gorgeous, but he couldn’t help but remember Sherlock’s brief lecture on its lack of culture. _They built a city on poles in the water and have had tourists ever since._  He shook the memory away, suppressing a smile. “Why don’t we walk around for a bit before supper?”

Sarah wrapped herself on his arm. “I’d love that.”

~

“It’s funny how I always seem to have gotten the stereotypical ‘Italy’ dates,” Sarah commented over her green tea gelato. “It’s singing and pasta and gondolas. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Well, you did seem to have all the luck that way,” John laughed. He remembered Pagliacci still, and Sarah dancing in the kitchen. The image made him smile and then the smile slipped a bit. A violin echoed in his mind as his hand rested on a cold, locked, door handle, too far from where it wanted to be. Sherlock’s pain. “It was fun, though. I’m glad I brought you.”

“So am I.” Sarah seemed so peaceful, eating gelato and sitting on the bench. The picture of bliss. John was glad to be part of it, sharing a moment of quiet domesticity in the high-stress life he was getting used to. “If we ever come back, though, I’m requesting dates that don’t come with singing Italian men.”

~

Sarah had insisted on wandering through a few alleys and shops. She bought a hat that matched her dress, and was trying to convince John to buy a vase made of Milano glass. The blue glass was swirled with yellows and greens, catching the light at a thousand different angles. He had picked it up just because it caught his eye, but now he was having trouble letting it go.

“John, it’s gorgeous. And it’s a statement piece. It doesn’t matter where you put it, it will look good.” Sarah was right. It was a gorgeous vase, an eye-catcher that deserved attention. A lovely centerpiece.

It wasn’t a mask and there wasn’t anyone standing practically on top of him, close enough to breathe the same air. A hand brushed his and an eyebrow raised over striking blue-grey eyes.

“You’re actually going to pay money for that thing?” Sherlock’s voice, with its condescending overtones, its palpable distaste. His skeptical smile making John want to laugh.

He twirled the vase in his hands, smiling while Sarah took another look at it. Standing too far away to brush against him. Encouraging him to buy it.

“I think you’re right,” he said idly, lost in thought. “It’s hard to picture it on my table.”

Sarah smiled. “That’s why you bring it home.”

John smiled at that and bought the vase.

~

Dinner was in the same garden again. Not that John minded. The candlelight and familiar atmosphere was calming. He knew where he was and what to do here. Sarah was joyous, and she looked heavenly in the flickering light. A perfect beauty, just like she was supposed to be.

But the comparison track ran in his head. Her skin was a bit tanned, Sherlock’s was pale as moonlight. Straight brown hair versus dark curls. The candlelight reflecting in blue-grey eyes, catching some level of wanting hesitance, an inlet for the river. A day where all that mattered was the man in front of him and the candlelight and their wants.

“Perfect end to a perfect day,” Sarah said, happily, a peaceful smile resting on her lips. “They couldn’t pick a prettier place.”

“No, they really couldn’t. It’s a lovely garden.” John smiled back. Conversation with Sarah didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t even have to be there. Everything was comfortable. Whether they were talking about romance or the weather.

“I’m just glad I can spend today with you, John.” She paused for a moment then continued. “And I know I’ve said it, and I think I’ve made my feelings clear, but I want to say it again. I love you. And every moment I spend with you.”

She didn’t stutter or pause; it wasn’t hard for her. It was simple and straightforward — something Sarah needed him to know. Something John needed to know.

She shushed him when he tried to speak. “Don’t bother, John. You can’t say anything back, and I think I know you’re still confused. It’s alright. You don’t have to know and you don’t have to try to be something for me. I’m happy with you just the way you are right now.”

A moment’s silence passed before John kissed her. He didn’t have a better way to express how he felt. Gratitude, relief, calm. Everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and let that say everything he wasn’t able to.

It couldn’t, though. And it wouldn’t be completely honest. These were the arms that had held Sherlock that morning. These were the arms that didn’t think twice when they reached out to the consulting detective. Arms that held all the feelings he had jumbled together over two months.

They broke off happy, finishing their meals slowly. But John couldn’t speak. Sarah didn’t mind. She just let him regain his peace.

The invitation came out, after they finished, after John had calmed down. He didn’t want to lose her. He fished it out of his jacket, quietly passing it to her.

“I want you to have this, Sarah,” he said in hushed tones. “If you want it.”

She opened it and read the note in silence. Then she picked up the key with a grin. Completely different from the night before. No preamble, no discussions.

“Of course I want it. Let’s get out of here.”

~

The suite they walked into was all whites and blacks and smooth lines and curves. Ultramodern. Exactly the opposite of the suite he had brought Sherlock to. But just as high-end. Sarah dragged him through each room, peering in to the bathroom, and the bedroom, and then pulling him out the glass doors to the balcony. Their view was overlooking the city and its canals.

She couldn’t have been more excited. Delighted. And she didn’t wait for the cameras to leave before pulling him in for a kiss and running her hands down his sides. It was passionate, her tongue in his mouth, his senses flooded with the scent of her and the feeling of being touched. No plaintive looks, no fear, no trepidation. No nervous self-awareness. Completely the opposite of Sherlock’s hesitant but lustful kisses. Sarah’s were certainly lustful, but they were self-assured, confident. She wasn’t nervous about what happened next.

He broke away before they made it to the bed, straightened his shirt, and walked the cameraman outside. They went without a pause this time, and he closed the door sharply in their face. Some bit of him was satisfied with even that small revenge. For the hesitation they had the night before when Sherlock’s eyes were pleading with them to go. When all John had wanted was privacy and the consulting detective in his arms.

Sarah had followed him.

“No need to be so shy,” she laughed, catching him around the waist again. “They would cut anything incriminating anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean I want them to catch it on film,” John returned, turning to pull her closer. He settled his hands on her waist.

She arched up in to his kiss, arms around his neck, her body pressed completely against his, all her motions deliberate.

Sherlock’s touches had been calculated and slow, at first. But now there were other fingers on his hips over his trousers, overzealous, trying to wipe away the sensual touches from the night before etched on the skin underneath them. Unsuccessfully trying to tear him away from a dark-haired man. Sarah’s fingers were softer, wider, less graceful. Their grip was strong, pulling, unrelenting. Sarah didn’t hesitate or think twice. Sherlock was trying so hard when other people could do the same things so easily.  

John tried to push that away. This was about Sarah. He was supposed to do this for her. Because he loved her.

She nipped quickly at his neckline before pulling away, letting her hair down as she walked. John followed as she beckoned, trailing her into the bedroom.

She latched on to him again when they got to the bed, and let him lower her down softly.  Her hair spread out on the pillow, her eyes sparkling, the flush across her cheeks giving her a healthy glow. No pale skin or dark curls or parted lips — her smile was devilish and flirty and certain.

No need for reassurance or worry. John was sure she wanted this. And he thought he did too.

But he wasn’t sure.

Sarah shuddered as he leaned down to kiss her, pulling him closer, arching into the kiss. Her tongue didn’t move the same way Sherlock’s did. Her fingers roved in different places. The sweetness of the mint she had had before was distracting. Not the sour taste of unbrushed teeth, or the natural sweetness of his empty mouth.

John pulled away, redirecting his kisses, moving slowly down her neck, savouring the taste of her skin, his eyes closed as he moved towards the base of that smooth neck. Looking for the spot at the base of his collarbone. Finding it midway down her neck.

“Oh, John...” The moan startled him — higher and softer, not raspy or needy. Not the deep wanton voice in his head, calling his name as he came. He knew he stiffened for a moment, pausing as his muscles tensed involuntarily, but he kept going. Her hands pulled him closer, one in his hair, one on his back, reopening the scratches there with manicured nails and the rough fabric of his shirt. Sherlock’s fingers were tearing into him again, pulling him closer, losing control of his hands as his hips bucked into John’s, as his eyes closed in ecstasy.

John didn’t quite jump, he didn’t quite pull back. His hands slid down her petite, curvy waist, not quite feeling the right angles. Not quite able to touch the gentle, soft curve of her hips. He knew he wouldn’t feel his fingers brush his bony bare hip, feel along his ribs, his side and settle in the curve of his back. She wiggled a bit, squirming as she guided him up and kissed him deeply, her mouth still too confident, too minty.

John pulled back as she gasped, her dark curls shading her blue-grey eyes, his bare chest heaving as his erection throbbed against John’s thigh, a wanton moan escaping his lips and echoing over Sarah’s soft gasp.

He couldn’t do this.

They rolled over in bed, and John moved to lie beside her and breathed deeply. Sarah looked at him with slightly glazed eyes, but gave him his space. No thigh brushing against his, no timid desire to be closer. Just the distance he needed right now. He couldn’t appreciate it more.

“I’m so sorry,” he said after a long moment. His hands came up to scrub at his face. “So sorry. I don’t think I can do this.”

Sarah’s hand settled on his stomach, and she curled up next to him. “It’s alright, John. It’s okay. Don’t apologize.”

“I should. I’ve brought you this far, I should be able to do this for you.” He felt awful. Like he had led her on. But he couldn’t fucking do this. And seeing Sherlock’s face when he was in bed with Sarah was  stopping him cold and breaking his heart.

“No, you shouldn’t,” she said firmly. She didn’t seem upset. “I think it’s sweet of you. You’re considering our feelings, and the fact that that’s more important to you is touching. Nothing to apologize for.”

John sighed. He couldn’t talk to her about the night before. He didn’t want to.

“Thank you for understanding,” he said at last. “Do you still want to stay? I would understand if you don’t.”

“No, I’m quite content with cuddling in a king-sized bed.” She smiled that serene, catching smile. “I’m just going to get changed, and I’ll be right back.”

It was awful. He felt sick. Sarah talked about cuddling but he knew already that she would lie in his arms and he would spend the entire evening feeling guilty and not getting much sleep. He was still sleeping with Sherlock.

She came back, and urged him into bed, ready to just be held and drift off to sleep. He couldn’t deny her that.

John resigned himself to staring at the ceiling as it slowly turned from white to gold.

~

Waking up next to Sarah felt like a perfect marriage. From beside him, she smiled sweetly, her hand stroked his hair, sun lighting her face. John couldn’t help but smile back, bleary and tired, barely awake.

“Good morning, John,” she murmured, her voice soft and musical.

“Morning,” he mumbled back, struggling to wake up.

She got up just before him, gave him a kiss on the brow, and wandered over to the phone in the living area to order breakfast. John listened to her request for room service as the world came crashing back down on him.

Sarah sat with her legs crossed, the sun highlighting her nightdress’ soft curves, her gentle smile, like a scene out of a movie. The happy ending.

John had fallen asleep sometime late in the night, long after Sarah had, long after his stomach had finally stopped churning. Visions of Sherlock had danced around the dark room, keeping him awake. Sarah had been so close, but not really there at all.

The guilt had settled deep in his stomach, tearing him inside out. He didn’t even know what he felt guilty over. He wanted to focus on Sarah. Wanted to be there, enjoying the perfect domesticity. But he couldn’t. He needed sleep. Real sleep, not guilt-ridden or stress-induced.

“You like eggs, right, John?” Sarah called.

“Of course,” he replied, automatically. “Eggs are great.”

“Good. They’ll be here in a minute. And then we’ve got to get dressed and check out.”

She wandered back in to the room and smiled at him. “Thank you for yesterday.”

John couldn’t find a single second that she could be thanking him for.

~

Later that evening, Dave wanted him to talk about Laura. Apparently they needed to discuss these kinds of things on camera, for the benefit of television. Supposedly to help John figure out what had happened and dissect their relationship. Not sure how this was helping, John really wasn’t doing a good job of conversation. But he was trying. Even though Laura was the very last thing on his mind right now.

“I’m glad she knew what she wanted. That was better for her than staying and trying to pretend that I was the right person.” John genuinely was happy that she had decided to move on. He didn’t want to force anything on anyone, and it was one less person for him to hurt. This was going to be hard enough — at least one decision had been made for him. “It was a good decision on her part.”

“But you must be worried,” Dave urged. “Having a relationship just end like that, so close to the last days? Does it make you question the relationships you have now?”

“No,” John answered, exhausted. “I’m very sure of Sarah and Sherlock. I trust them both. If anything, I feel _more_ secure in my choices now.”

Dave smiled. “Do you want to bring anyone back, in place of Laura?”

John sighed heavily. Because he needed to hurt someone twice? No, he thought not. Sherlock and Sarah were the only ones he wanted here. No question.

“No. I’m happy with my choices.”

~

He looked at pictures for a while because Steve wanted him to. Tired and uninterested, but doing what he was told. Then, he walked out to give Sarah and Sherlock their roses.

He noted Sherlock was wearing a coat and a very carefully placed scarf, even though it wasn’t cold. His eyes made contact with Sherlock’s, and the consulting detective very calmly raised his chin and adjusted the scarf again, one eyebrow raised. Brazen yet subtle. John could just see the edge of the bruise on Sherlock’s neck and his smile was threatening to turn into a laugh. Sherlock’s echoing smile was heartening.

But then John watched as Sherlock’s eyes seemed to catch, something flickering across the blue-grey, weighing down his lips. Like some cold edge had needled in. John faltered slightly. He was standing there with Sherlock, desperate. He would have given anything to hold him, anything to touch him. But he couldn’t.

“Sarah. Sherlock.” Dave was all about the smarm tonight. Unsurprising, considering the nature of this week’s dates. John wished he’d be less cocky. “Just so you are both aware, Laura has already left due to her conflicting emotions. For tonight, it’s just the two of you. John.”

Sarah’s surprise was on her face. Of course she hadn’t heard about it — they’d been in separate rooms. Sherlock remained unreadable, not betraying anything.

John walked over to the plate of roses. Two. One for Sherlock, one for Sarah. No decisions today, no meaning to these offerings because the _real_ decision was coming later. But his hands still shook as he lifted the first one, knowing that these were the last roses he would give out. Next time it was a ring.

“Sherlock,” he murmured. “Will you accept this rose?” He wanted to say more than that. But he couldn’t.

“Yes.” The consulting detective came up and took his rose, fingers pausing on John’s, carefully accepting. Sherlock’s eyes met his and they held that for a moment before their lips brushed and Sherlock left again, leaving John with the ghost of a kiss.

“Sarah,” he murmured next. “Will you accept this rose?”

 “Of course,” she answered, coming to give him a light hug, and a quick kiss. John watched Sherlock’s pale and scared expression as Sarah walked back to her spot beside him.

And it was over in less than three minutes, but somehow this was more emotional than all of the other rose ceremonies combined. All the guilt he was feeling, the amount of love he felt for Sherlock _and_ Sarah was overwhelming. Before it had been relatively simple to eliminate one or two girls from his pool of twenty or twelve or eight. But he wasn’t feeling very sure of anything right now.

Sarah left quickly, a smile on her face and a wave to John as she headed out. But Sherlock paused for a moment, fingers on the edge of his scarf, eyes searing with something that John couldn’t name. They stared like that for a few seconds. Something was dragging them together roughly, not letting go. John wasn’t sure he _could_ let it go. Close by, but not close enough — unable to speak, unable to move. Then Sherlock spun on his heel and left, not looking back, not nearly as unsteady as John felt.

These flowers had ripped the ground from under him. And now he got to deal with the aftermath.

~

Sherlock stood there for a long moment. He couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from John’s eyes. His hand clenched tightly into a fist beside him, wanting to reach out to touch the other man’s face, wind fingers through his hair, wanting to get that touch in return. But he couldn’t.

It took all he had to turn quickly and not turn back, because he knew no matter what he saw in John’s eyes, no matter what they may want to do or say right now, neither of them could.

Cold and sickness crawled up to his chest, threatened to infect his heart that was swollen with the euphoria of seeing John Watson again and the inflammation of knowing that it was just one more week.

One more week.

Then it was over.


	10. Episode Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Ten - Salzburg, Austria
> 
> As an aside, this fic was written long before series three (which I still haven't seen), so I apologize for any inconsistencies with canon.

Episode Ten

 

The train ride to Salzburg had been pleasantly not a _plane_ , but still a major inconvenience for what amounted to less than a week of filming. Sherlock was tired of travelling, tired of being at the mercy of the whims of a rather shallow producer, and tired of Sarah. But he had five days left with John, and he wasn’t about to give those up for anything.

So, he found himself, once again, sitting in a hotel lobby with her. And she was perfect, dressed nicely, well rested, and everything Sherlock wasn’t as he curled into a chair, disheveled, tired, and upset. Two days of sleeplessness, John’s body against his jolting him to awareness every time his eyes started to close, were taking their toll. But he didn’t think he’d be sleeping any time soon. Compared to that, Sarah was just so vibrant and alive — awake. She was probably going to skip to her room tonight and go to bed and be perfectly awake all over again tomorrow. Sherlock was going to go to his room, fumble with his key, not be able to read, and then spend a few long hours staring at a ceiling. He hated that she could be so composed when he was falling apart and hated the fact that he couldn’t stop comparing them. He was never going to do anything but fall short.

“So, what exactly happened with Laura?” she was asking, as an attempt at conversation. Sherlock sighed heavily. Not what he wanted to chat about. Not that there was anything he _did_ want to chat about. Not with Sarah. “Did you know anything about it?”

“She refused her key,” he bluntly replied. He wasn’t about to indulge her gossip in any meaningful way. She could find out later when she watched the tapes. For now all she was going to get was vague terse answers — at best — until maybe she got the hint and left him alone. Besides, he wasn’t feeling very generous, and Laura was still a subject he preferred not to think about. The whole incident was just embarrassing and infuriating and he didn’t have time to further berate himself about how he had no idea where it came from. There were other, more important things to beat himself up about. Like what he was about to lose.

Like John’s hands on his waist, his tongue against Sherlock’s nipple, gently teasing his way down his body, making him forget about the inanity of this whole reality-show scenario, how Sherlock didn’t _have_ romances. How he loved John and how John did not deserve to be tied down to him and how he wasn’t the only person John loved, anyways, and how he was sitting in this room with Sarah trying not to have this idle conversation about how ridiculous Laura was and how much _he_ loved John and how all of that could go wrong so quickly when just two days ago he had been laughing and holding John’s hand.

“Do you know why, though?” she asked, not scandalized but curious.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered without thinking, nearly jumping at his own answer. Shit. He was losing too much focus; he needed more than an hour’s sleep tonight or his conversation was going to suffer even more, and he really didn’t want John to remember him stumbling over his words on their last date. And John’s smile was so soft and close, so visible. But he wasn’t there.

The silence stretched on, Sherlock lost in recreating a perfect replica of John in his mind. Sarah raised an eyebrow and tilted her head towards him.

“Not in a sharing mood?” she asked with a laugh, her eyes measuring him.

“Not overly, no.” Sherlock’s frowned deepened, he had been sharing too much with Sarah lately for his likance. Like John. His stomach twisted and he tried to push those thoughts away as abruptly and violently as he could.

A knowing light brightened Sarah’s face. She didn’t say anything, but she worried her bottom lip in the certainty of assumption and Sherlock knew that she had a fairly accurate guess about why Laura had indeed left. He was disgusted but not surprised, he supposed. After all, she had actually talked to Laura about things that weren’t related to television and how annoying she was being by having no taste in programming. Maybe Laura had confided in her at one point? Sherlock didn’t know and, quite frankly? Sherlock didn’t care.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Sarah said, pausing to leave him a chance to respond. He didn’t have anything to say. Not to her. Not about this stupid trivial occurance that Sarah couldn’t seem to shut up about. Why did she even care? This was none of her concern and there were certainly bigger issues at hand that weren’t so absolutely mundane. “I hope she’s okay.”

“Mm.” Noncommittal grunt. Maybe she’d stop trying? Why was she still trying? He was pretty sure that even Anderson would have been able to figure out that he didn’t want to talk to her right now.

“How was your date with John?”

His hackles started to rise sharply. She had no right to know.

The healing ache in his back, the bruise that was barely hidden by his collar as it faded, the slight discomfort of simply sitting in that chair all rushed down on him, flooding his senses, stripping him back down to just himself and a bed and John, lips pressed together, heat building between them, keeping them warm as they moved against one another. He couldn’t describe that. Couldn’t describe how much that meant.

“Fine.” His tone was acidic and cold. Sarah couldn’t have this. It was John’s.

“Just fine?” The baffled smile was far too friendly. Like she was trying to care about _his_ experiences. Why would she care about how _his_ date went? The quick answer was that she didn’t. And Sherlock couldn’t abide the politesse right now.

“Magical, wonderful, perfect. Whichever adjective you wish to choose. It was good.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but he could tell he was starting to get on her nerves. And it felt damn good. Maybe she could grow a spine and start to hate him some fraction of the amount that he hated her.

“Mine was too. It was so sweet that he couldn’t sleep with any of us.” Her tone was soft and full of sweetness, happy with John’s honour.

Sherlock felt a very intense and very pleasant wave of happiness and relief at those words. Like his dreams had come true and John didn’t like Sarah at all and everything he wanted was going to happen.

Then it instantly started crashing on the rocks of Sherlock’s grasp on reality as he felt his heart start to hammer in his chest. He very forcefully kept himself in the same position. No, emotion on his face. No panic on the exterior. To the outside world he was as disinterested as always, as perfectly cool. Inside, his mind was racing, his heart was clenching.

“Yes, it was,” he said, a bit more wistfully than intended. Sarah seemed satisfied with that and he made sure to profusely thank the god he didn’t believe in. He probably couldn`t withstand in-depth questioning.

“I’m going to get a coffee. Call me if they assign our rooms?” She stood up and stretched. Sherlock didn’t answer. He wasn`t going to call her. “Alright, I’ll be back in a moment.”

He watched her leave, and let the internal wave of anxiety go ahead and drown his initial relief. John obviously hadn’t slept with Sarah. John also hadn’t told Sarah about their night together, thus Sarah was making the assumption based on John’s actions. All that was obvious and factual based on both their characters. The real question: what the hell did that _mean_?

He couldn’t process this. Everything in him wanted to believe in the outright euphoria he felt, the reassurance that John maybe did just love him. Only him. But he couldn’t. It didn’t make sense. John would be a complete _fool_ to pass up a relationship with Sarah. She was perfect. Every part of her was perfect and she clearly represented the relationship that he was sure people expected John to have. John could have a normal life and a stable home and the perfect, middle-class, blissful dream. There was no reason for John to pick anything else.

Maybe John’s actions had been born of nothing but pity.

No, John wasn’t like that. Sherlock refused to think about it any further or else it would hurt too much and he wouldn’t be able to hide it. Speculation was too painful and would get him nowhere and be too much. He needed to focus on facts and facts alone.

He really did want to spend his life with John. More than anything and he knew that it was John or it was the cold spreading through his chest and the constant companionship of an empty yearning void. But he also knew that he was going to go home with his own inner monsters and not the doctor. To hope for anything else was stupid. Stupid wishful thinking. Stupid emotional attachment. He was setting himself up for utter and complete mental anguish. And he couldn’t stand the fact that he couldn’t accept it.

He couldn’t _accept_ it.

He couldn’t let John walk away and never touch him again and never see him again. But he would. Because John deserved better than psychopathic, socially rejected, emotionally compromised _anyone_. John deserved better than him.

~

They had put John in a little three bedroom bungalow because Harry and his mother were staying there for two of the next five days. He wasn’t looking forward to that. He wasn’t sure what he was doing; he wasn’t sleeping; he was doing his best to be happy for both Sarah and Sherlock. To say it bluntly, his life was a disaster. And he was desperately in love, but he needed some time that wasn’t traveling, or planning dates, or entertaining his damn sister, or staring at the ceiling when he should be sleeping.

But the production insisted. It was time for his family to meet the two most important people to him. Because they would give him an opinion and help him decide, and figure out how to choose someone who would work as part of his family.

Reality? He didn’t trust Harry’s opinion on anything, and hadn’t since they were just out of college. Since she started drinking. His mother was a different story, but not entirely so. She, at least, was sober. He didn’t always disagree with her opinion. She might even have a bit of advice. But it was all kind of tainted by the fact that she didn’t defend Harry much against their father when she came out. He hadn’t talked to his father for years because of that reaction. And his mother hadn’t really helped the situation.

He didn’t feel comfortable with his family anymore. That kind of overshadowed the ‘importance’ of introducing them to Sherlock and Sarah.

He really wouldn’t have minded an objective opinion, right now. If only to feel less like he was in a vacuum. Talking to Dave was always an option — according to Steve — but he was really sick of having inane, biased conversations about how much people don’t like Sherlock.

Harry’s opinion wasn’t objective either, though. He already knew that.

“Huuuullooooooo,” he heard from the door. Harry. “You here already, John?”

John turned from the kitchenette and waved politely. “Hello, Harry. Hello, Mum. How was the trip?”

Harry walked in, short blonde hair styled carefully to look messier than it actually was. She was tall and sickly looking. Thinner than when John had last seen her, but still with just a bit of distended stomach. Drinking. She probably looked so much like shit because of the horrible break up with Clara. He’d heard about it while he was in hospital. But he wasn’t surprised. They couldn’t stop fighting, the two of them. Clara wanted a career and a family and a steady income. Harry wanted to party. It wasn’t going to work.

Cathy, John’s mother, looked like she always did. Slightly overweight, hair dyed light brown to hide the grey, dressed in a sweater and slacks, neat but casual. The soft crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes had deepened, but she looked younger than she was. Motherly.

“The trip was great,” his mother replied cheerily. “Austria is beautiful in the summer.”

“Good, I’m glad,” John said quietly. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to them. “Sarah will be here later this afternoon, if you want to take the morning to settle in.”

Harry kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the couch. His mother more politely walked over to give him a kiss on the cheek before sitting down.

“I think it will just be wonderful to talk to you for a while, John,” she said. “I’d like to know what you’ve been up to.”

“And she wants the dish on your romances. You’re going to have to tell us all about them.” Harry winked from her seat. John resigned himself to taking his tea over to the couch and talking to his family about his love life.

“So...there’s two left,” John started, not entirely sure how to broach the subject. Might as well get it over with, though. “I guess you’re meeting them both in the next couple days.”

“Who’s visiting today?” His mother asked, voice dripping with curiousity. John had known she’d be excited. It was her nature to be nosy. “Is she pretty?”

“Yes, Sarah’s pretty,” John said with a smile, letting his mother take the lead. The ‘interrogation’, as he called it, always happened when he met someone new.

“And what does she do?”

“She’s a nurse practitioner in London.”

“Oh, that’s exciting!” Mum’s eyes sparkled. “I always thought you’d be suited to a nurse, I figured it’d be a perk of the job.”

Harry rolled her eyes while John suppressed a smile. His mother had been on about him marrying a nurse since he had first started med school. It was old hat by now. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that Sarah delighted her.

“And then you went to war and got shot instead.” She frowned, looking at John like he was a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. John let his stony glare say what he had told her before: he didn’t appreciate her comments on his choices. “I guess you’ve got at least some of your priorities in line now.”

“You talk about love like it’s a career, mum,” Harry snapped. “He’s not getting a job — he’s picking a wife.”

“And I’m sure she’ll be a lovely wife,” their mother said back, still forcibly pleasant. “Won’t she, John?”

“If I pick Sarah, I’m sure she will be,” John replied. “She’s a wonderful woman. I’m sure she’d make a great wife.”

“And then we could have some grandkids around here.”

“ _Mum_ ,” Harry growled. “Neither of us are having grandkids in the near future.”

“John might be,” came the reply, not phased by Harry’s anger. “And it was just a comment.”

“I’m not thinking about kids just yet, Mum.” John sighed. He didn’t need the bickering to start up now. He didn’t need to be married to Sarah before he even _told_ them about Sherlock. “And, besides, you haven’t even met her.”

“She sounds lovely,” John’s mum cooed, repeating herself. “And like she’s just right for you. It would be really nice for you date a nurse. She could find you a job, maybe.”

“I think I can find a job on my own,” John snapped. His mother was always looking for the best superficial match for him and that’s why he never let her weigh in on his dates. He wanted more for himself than she did.

“Who’s the other girl?” Harry burst in. Impatient, as always.

“Ah, Sherlock,” John said. Bracing himself.

“Funny name for a girl,” his mother commented before adding her perennial first question. “Is she pretty?”

“Ah. He’s not a girl. Though, yes, he’s really handsome.” And there it was. His mother’s eyebrows almost jumped off her face, but scarier than that? Harry’s wicked smile. She was so sinisterly gleeful that it almost gave him chills.

Harry cackled. “Oh _God_ , that’s rich.”

“Well, I’m glad your father didn’t come along, then.” His mother hadn’t gotten any better at this since Harry came out. She looked pale and shocked, even as she tried to cover it. “I didn’t think you had those...inclinations.”

“Sherlock is _not_ an ‘inclination’, Mum,” John snapped again, feeling the anger rush into his voice. He couldn’t stand listening to her degrade things she didn’t understand. She’d been doing it as long as John could remember, and he hadn’t let her do it in his presence for years. But the fact that she was talking about Sherlock that way just made it worse. She gave him a very scrutinizing look while Harry sat back to watch them fight. “I won’t listen to you trivialize this because he’s a man.”

“I didn’t mean to trivialize anything,” his mother said with a sigh, deflating a bit. “Sorry, John. I’m just surprised.”

“John’s supposed to be the good child,” Harry said with a bitter chortle. “No flings with members of the same gender.”

“He’s not a fling, either,” John snarled, feeling his hackles rise. Harry was almost as bad as his mother just in a different way. “I’m just as serious about Sherlock as I am about Sarah.”

“I just didn’t think you were in to men,” his mother sighed. “It’s a bit of a shock.”

John groaned. He should probably attempt to explain this, though he doubted they’d ever really understand. Hell, they didn’t even understand _Harry_ , and she was uncomplicated. His relationship was complicated. “I don’t think it’s men in general; I think it’s Sherlock.”

“Ooooooo,” Harry squealed. “Tall, dark, handsome stranger woos you with his unique personality?”

John put his head in his hands, trying to rub his headache away. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Oh, that good, eh?” Harry teased. John figured he might as well be honest.

“Yes. Sherlock’s incredible. He’s intelligent, and handsome, and exhilarating, and...just amazing.”

Harry’s grin spread further with each word and his mother looked temporarily like she was going to faint. She stood up and bustled over to the kitchenette, obviously making some tea. John settled into the couch and waited for the barrage.

~

“I cannot _believe_ John’s dating a man,” Harry was still squealing with absolute, unadulterated delight. The camera caught her wild arm movements, and the dark circles under her eyes. “I thought I was going to have to deal with John and his perfect women. He’s always the favourite. This is so, _so_ much better.”

~

“So what’s he do for a living?” Harry asked, filling her mother’s space in the questioning. Cathy was in the kitchen but John could tell she was still listening intently.

“He’s a consulting detective.” John’s smiled, it was hard not to when he was talking about Sherlock. “World’s only.”

Harry just raised an eyebrow. “Okay then. And he gets along with you?”

“Obviously. Spending time with Sherlock is incredible.”

“Have you had sex yet?” Harry shot, the grin coming back. John felt himself blush.

“That is _none_ of your business, Harry,” he snapped, trying not to get too defensive or give himself away. He didn’t want to talk about sex with Harry _ever_. And questions like these viscerally reminded him why he wasn’t closer to her. She had absolutely no sense of boundries.

“Don’t ask him that,” came the call from the kitchen. “Respect your brother’s privacy.”

“Fine.” Harry stretched. “I’ll just ask _Sherlock_ tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t,” John barked. “He doesn’t need that and you have no right to ask.”

“Alright, alright,” Harry laughed, dismissing him. John really hoped she would listen to him. For Sherlock’s sake. He shouldn’t have to deal with his sister’s rudeness, especially not on national television. “Which of them do you see yourself with?”

John sighed. “Harry, that’s not the problem. I can see myself with both of them. But it’s a wildly different choice. Sherlock’s exciting and adventurous and amazing, whereas Sarah’s everything I thought I would have. It’s a very strong dichotomy.”

“And that’s where we come in, yeah?” Harry was holding the whole conversation. Not that John was surprised by that. Harry always dominated the small talk. “We give you an opinion; it helps you pick your true love.”

“Yeah, supposedly,” John agreed. “I’m hoping it will help.”

He didn’t hold out much hope, though. His mother came back over and patted him on the knee, sitting down with a forced smile.

“Don’t worry so much, John. It’s your choice in the end, and you’ll know who you prefer. All we can do is tell you who _we_ like.” Her eyes were sad and her words were a bit hollow. “Either way, we’ll be happy for you.”

Harry rolled her eyes, and John knew that his mother’s platitudes would never be entirely true.

~

“I know Mum doesn’t care, but if John picks some bitch that we all hate, I’m so not going to be happy for him,” Harry drawled at the camera. She was really enjoying these confessionals. “If he wants to be a prick, I’m going to call him out on it.”

~

“This matters so much to me,” Sarah said solemnly. “It’s a big step in our relationship. I want his family to like me, and I really hope I like them, because I might have to be part of their lives soon. It’s so important.”

~

John met Sarah outside the house later that afternoon. She came in a nice patterned dress, hair tied back, and a little more makeup than usual. He was touched that she was trying to make a good impression. A couple scarves were wrapped up for Harry and his mother.

He gave her a quick kiss and led her inside. Harry waved from the couch, and his mother turned from her place in the kitchen to give Sarah a smile.

“Hello, dear,” his mother called, drying her hands on a tea towel and coming over to give Sarah a hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Sarah, this is my mother, Cathy, and my sister, Harry,” John said, for introductions. Harry didn’t get up, but his mother did lead Sarah over to the couch. John took a seat in the chair beside her.

“Hello,” Sarah said, following Cathy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too, dear,” Cathy murmured. “I suppose we have a lot to talk about.”

“About John?” Sarah asked with a laugh. “We certainly do. Your son is quite the charmer.”

“He always was,” Harry giggled. “John was always popular with the women.”

John grimaced as Sarah’s smile froze on her face, both of them keenly aware of Harry’s implications. Sherlock was not a good topic right now, and John really didn’t want to negotiate the minefield of drama that Harry could create. He just wanted to introduce Sarah and have a nice conversation. Or as nice as this conversation could get.

“Oh, yes, John’s always been a sweetheart,” his mother supplied, bridging the silence like it was an old habit. Fill in for Harry’s lack of social skills and ignore the problem there. “He was even charming when he was a boy.”

“Only according to you,” John said with a smile. Sarah seemed to regain her calm and not miss a beat.

“John mentioned you were a nurse?” Cathy asked immediately. Of course.

“Ah, yes, nurse practitioner,” Sarah replied politely. “It’s really rewarding work.”

“Is it your first time dating a doctor?” Harry quipped, with too much emphasis on the words. Sarah laughed.

“Harry, stop it,” Cathy said.

“Mum’s just always had an image of John dating a nurse,” Harry said, continuing to stomp through the conversation like she wasn’t slightly insulting. “She’s been really excited to meet you.”

“Well, I hope I live up to her expectations.” Sarah smiled brightly, taking the teasing in stride.

“I’m sure you will, dear.” Cathy smiled. “It’s John who needs to live up to yours.”

“He’s already done that.” Sarah’s sly glance caught his eye and he smiled.

“You clearly didn’t know him when he was younger,” Harry piped.

This wasn’t so bad. He was used to entertaining company with his family — the awkward greetings, the pleasantries, Harry’s teasing. Sarah fit into this exactly how he had expected. But it really did feel a bit false. Like they were following a formula.

“I would love to hear more about him,” Sarah asked. “You should tell me some stories.”

“I will if John doesn’t interrupt them.” Harry smiled at him and John felt chills go down his spine. When did his sister get so evil? What was next? Baby pictures?

“No, you won’t.” John wasn’t letting her tell anything that Harry remembered. Embarrassing stories were crossing the line.

“We’ll see,” Harry returned.

~

“I love his family,” Sarah said with a laugh. “Harry is so open and fun-loving. I really get along with her. The life of the party, that one. And Cathy is sweet and lovely. Exactly what I’d want in a mother-in-law.”

~

“I like her.” Harry winked. “She’s just how John described her. A touch perfect. I like it.”

~

Harry pulled Sarah out to the patio to talk. It was typical; at least one member of the family was supposed to talk to the visitor alone. John’s mother wasn’t about to do the ‘secret conversation’ trope, but Harry was definitely up for it. Besides, she wanted to look out for her brother. Supposedly.

“So, I have to ask,” Harry started, blunt as always. “How do you feel about John?”

“I love him.” There was no hesitation in her voice. “He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a husband — calm and fun and really just great to be with. I really hope I’ll get to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“You’re sure about that?” Harry was laughing. “Last I checked, he was a bit of a git. And not very good a settling down. Army and all.”

Sarah smiled. “I know. But I think he’s _ready_ to settle down. He needs something more permanent, especially with that shoulder wound he has. I don’t think he wants anything different than I do.”

“Well, good. I’m glad you think so.” Harry sighed. “You have any doubts about him? Do you think you’re going to for sure be his fiancée?”

“I certainly hope so.” Sarah shifted a bit, but she didn’t seem uncomfortable. “I’d be heartbroken if he didn’t choose me. But, no, I don’t doubt him. He’s a good man. I can trust him.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.” But there wasn’t much weight in Harry’s words. She sighed and changed the subject. “What about Sherlock? What do you think of him?”

Sarah pursed her lips for a moment. “He’s...interesting. I honestly can’t say that I see what John does in him, but he is a very unique man. He’s very intelligent, if aloof.”

Her diplomatic answer wasn’t really what Harry wanted. “You don’t like him?”

Sarah cringed a little. “Not really. I find him to be somewhat...unfriendly. Hostile, almost. But he’s obviously not like that to John.”

“He’s different around you?” The question was sharp, quizzical and prying.

“I’m not sure,” Sarah said, wavering around her answer. “But from what I’ve seen, he’s fairly cold and unpredictable.”

“Interesting.” Harry chewed on that thought for a moment, considering the things Sarah wasn’t saying. “I hope John has better sense than that.”

“Yes, well.” Sarah examined her hands. “So do I.”

~

“She’s pretty confident,” Harry commented, a little more sober this time. “It doesn’t bother me that she is; she’s right, she’s a great match for John. And that kind of certainty is an asset.”

Harry’s smile was just a bit wistful this time, as if labouring under a memory of someone else.

~

Sarah said her goodbyes after an hour or so, and John was left to talk to Harry and his mother.

“So?” he started. “What do you think of her?”

“She’s lovely, dear,” Cathy crooned. “Absolutely lovely. I knew she would be, though. You always did have a good idea of who you wanted to date. She fits with you incredibly well.”

“Yeah, she’s great.” Harry had relaxed again. “Confident in you, too, which is nice. And she’s a wonderful woman.”

“Good,” John said, feeling mildly sick. He was glad they liked her. But somehow he figured Sherlock’s visit wouldn’t go over nearly so well. And that bothered him, almost like the deck had been stacked against the consulting detective from the beginning.

~

Sherlock wasn’t sleeping. It was three in the morning, and he was staring at the ceiling, his mind rolling in possibilities and fear. And he was angry at himself for it. He shouldn’t _feel_ scared. He never felt scared. Death didn’t scare him. But somehow the prospect of losing John to this stupid competition was terrifying.

And it hurt. Because, as angry as he was, as frustrated and lost and upset as he was, Sherlock knew that whatever small heart he had was John’s and John’s alone. He couldn’t get rid of the thrill of walking beside him, the laugh tinged with surprise when he made a joke, the feel of his hand in John’s.

He had never felt anything like this. Never needed anyone, much less this viscerally. And in three days he was going to lose it all. It was the only logical outcome. John would be off with Sarah and Sherlock would go home to his flat. Alone. With something cold and dead inside him. Something that threatened to spread and claw and tear at everything until it was bloody pieces on the floor. Pieces that would never go back together again.

He could already feel the cold spreading, slowly seeping through him, bringing a tremble to his hands — a stumble to his walk. Dying from the inside out, circulation shutting down, like a broken, empty machine. A prognosis of three days.

His hands shook when he lifted them, and he had to wait, his heart thudding in his chest, for them to steady enough to grab his violin. Sitting, curled on the floor beside his bed, Sherlock settled his head on the chinrest and braced his arm against his knee. His right hand sought out the bow, fingers trailing in the carpet as they inched their way towards their target. He found it, placed it against the strings and took a deep breath.

When everything else was gone, he would have the violin. He would still have music to drown out his psychache. The utter, complete, desolate heartbreak ringing through his chest.

His fingers stumbled a bit on the first pass of the bow, his arm trembling, the chord sounding wrong. Another pass brought a sharp screech, his hands shaking too much to control the tone. Shit. His ears rang with the noise, pain shooting through his already building headache. A third pass. No melody. No notes. There was no music in him.There was nothing left.

He tossed the violin, hearing it clatter against the chair or the wall — he didn’t care which. He didn’t care what happened to it. He couldn’t play.

He couldn’t play.

His arms pulled around his shoulders, tightly holding himself together, trying to keep the last bit of him from breaking. Trying to make himself alright. But his last bit of solace was gone.

Sherlock Holmes couldn’t even play the violin. So he had no choice but to drown in his pain.

~

He was already most of the way to John’s rental when he found himself double-guessing his gift. Clearly he’d forgotten something important, but his brain was not digging it up with any kind of efficiency. The bottle of wine was heavy in his hands, and he was overtired, and desperately trying to remember everything he could have deduced about John’s family.

Not too close to his family. They were never mentioned, never brought up voluntarily. Obviously John didn’t spend much time with them or thinking about them. Sister in London. A sister that he didn’t want to live with...because of clashing personalities and...substance abuse.

 _Shit_.

No, it wasn’t necessarily alcoholism, but there was a good chance it was. Very common vice, and highly legal. There were far too many alcoholics for that reason. Either way, the odds were too high to gamble and, either way, giving any kind of vice to an addict was probably in bad taste. Now he was fighting the impulse to shatter the fucking wine bottle over his clearly brainless head. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He should have bought chocolates or something more neutral. Or you know, remembered such a bloody obvious and critical piece of information. What the fuck was wrong with him? Oh...right. John.

Why the hell did he have to give them a gift anyway? Where was his present? He sure as hell had a lot more to go through than they did.

Violently he threw the bottle into the grass at the side of the road, sending it skittering but not quite breaking it. His arm ached with the force of the toss, but he was still tempted to climb into the ditch and retrieve it — throw it until it broke. But he didn’t have time for that. And as he turned around he was greeted by John’s befuddled grin.

“What are you doing?” John asked. The detective almost startled visibly, not having heard him approach. Sherlock was really very tired and he didn’t have the time for this.

“John, listen, can you hold them off for fifteen minutes?” John looked bewildered and Sherlock continued his explanation, hurried. “I have to go get a better gift.”

“Sherlock, I’m sure whatever you bought was fine,” John said, hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. The detective shrugged him off. John’s sweetness could wait until he fixed his screw up. “They’re not picky. What did you get?”

He gestured wildly at the bottle on the side of the road. John’s face fell into that particularly worried expression. The one Sherlock hated because it bordered on disappointment. Why did he have to use that look?

“I’m sorry, I should have remembered that your sister had substance problems. I’m an idiot, apparently. If you can stall for time, it’ll only take me a minute to get something else.”

“Sherlock, you couldn’t possibly have known about Harry.” John put a reassuring arm around him, obviously more concerned about him than Harry. “Just because she’s an alcoholic doesn’t mean you should know. The wine will be fine.”

“I _did_ know. This is my _job_.” Sherlock’s voice was far more desperate than he would like. Why couldn’t John just acknowledge that he should be better than this? “This was idiotic, but if you can wait, I can fix it. Please.”

“You don’t need to fix it,” John said with a smile, pulling Sherlock closer. He leaned in and kissed him, tender lips brushing together, Sherlock’s nerves softening, the edge of anger dulling with the comfort of John. When they pulled away, it was slowly, and with reluctance. “Don’t worry about it.”

“John,” Sherlock pleaded. He wanted to make a good impression. Or at least try to. He could do that much for John. “I want to fix it.”

“I’ll go with you,” John said. Always trying to help. Part of why Sherlock loved him. “We can get some chocolates at the store over there.”

John pointed to a little grocer’s across the street, and Sherlock, practically dashed, John in tow, to go get something more suitable. Oh, please. If only he could get this to go well.

~

“I appreciate the opportunity to meet John’s family,” Sherlock murmured, with a false smile plastered on his face. “No matter how nervous I may be.”

He _was_ nervous, and probably not going to make a good impression. He never seemed to. But he hated that he was nervous. _Hated_ it. He wasn’t going to win. He would never see these people again. Hell, _John_ didn’t even seem to like them that much. Why did he care if they liked him or not?

He didn’t know why. That feeling was awful. All he knew was that he did. And it was absolutely disgusting.

“I hope they like me.”

His last sentence was honest.

~

“Well, you two certainly took long enough,” Harry said with a wink as they came in.

“Harry,” Cathy whispered sharply.

“We were held up on the road,” John lied. Sherlock hid his grimace, grateful even for John’s _very_ feeble lie.

She stood up and came over to shake Sherlock’s hand. “You must be Sherlock.”

“Indeed. Harry, I presume?” Sherlock tried to not snatch his hand away. He could already tell why John didn’t like her. She was forward and very much an alcoholic — she had the eyes, the premature aging, the way her hand shook like she’d had only enough to drink to keep more serious withdrawal symptoms away for the moment. She looked rough, and judging from how gregarious she was being — her innuendos delivered with all the smoothness of a veteran at pick-up lines and one night stands — she was probably promiscuous. That combined with the drinking suggested that she liked parties. And she was abrasive, not because she had any confidence, but more likely to grab as much attention as possible and dominate everyone before they could point out her obvious discomfort with herself and any vulnerability she might have. Sherlock disliked her pretty much instantly. Pleasant. Great way to start the day.

“John told you about me? I’m impressed.” She sat back down, and left Sherlock and John to find their own seats next to each other on the couch. John was right next to him, close enough that their thighs brushed, and Sherlock could feel the ghost of the other man’s arm resting on the back of the sofa behind his shoulders. It was the most comforting thing he’d ever felt at that point.

“Of course,” John said looking at Sherlock instead of Harry, catching his eye and smiling. John was close, John was there, and it would be alright. John loved him. Family be damned.

John’s mother brought a pot of tea in, smiling.

“I’m Cathy, dear,” she murmured, pouring him a cup. “John’s mother. Would you like a cuppa?”

“Yes, please.” The please was an afterthought. Trying to keep his manners in place. “Pleased to meet you, Cathy.”

“Oh, me too! I wasn’t sure what to expect when John said he was dating a man.” She poured tea for both her children as well, before sitting down in a chair. He tried not to let the embarrassment well up inside him. He really didn’t need to blush right now. He also really didn’t need to have an extended conversation about how yes, he was male, and yes, John was too.

“I hear you turned John bi,” Harry joked. “I can see why — you’re a handsome bloke, and he tells me you’re smart too.”

“John flatters me,” Sherlock said, feeling a little trill inside him. He didn’t believe a word Harry said, but hearing that John described him as intelligent was warming anyway. “I only hope I can do the same.”

“Polite,” Cathy said with a smile. “That’s always a bonus.”

“I like to be good company.” He was already bored. John seemed calm, but Sherlock just felt awkward. He hated these interminable pleasantries and he was in for a whole afternoon of them. Cathy seemed to be just the type for them — a peacekeeper mother, just trying to make everyone look perfect. Fantastic.

“So,” Harry drawled out carefully. She had a malicious gleam in her eyes, and Sherlock felt his stomach sink. “Have you and John gone at it, yet?”

Cathy shrieked.

“ _Harry!_ ”

Harry shrugged, enjoying herself far too much. “I wanna know.”

“You _are not_ going to ask that,” John growled, his arm reflexively curling around Sherlock’s shoulders. John’s defense meant more than the world right then. Sherlock hated the nasty, facetious, intrusive questions and the blatant assumption that he would _answer_ and not be offended. That this was anyone’s concern other than John’s.

“John can’t properly tell if he’s ready to marry a man without having sex with him.” The flippant remarks turned Sherlock’s stomach. This wasn’t some game for Harry to pick at and laugh about. He was fairly certain Sarah hadn’t gotten this.

“That’s none of your business,” John snapped, obviously angered now. “And we’re not discussing it.” The doctor imperceptibly moved his hand, fingers brushing the back of Sherlock’s shoulder ever so slightly, almost as if it were a wordless apology. Sherlock leaned backward into the touch, trying to let it distract him from this rather painful conversation.

“I’ll assume you have then.” Harry smirked, and Sherlock just wanted to wipe the stupid expression off her face. She was crasser than he had imagined. And to think he disliked her before this. “We can talk about it later.”

Sherlock fumed and watched her wink at him and felt disgusted. If she weren’t John’s sister he would have spent the next ten minutes mortifying her, taking her façade apart. But for now he was resigned to stewing. Oh, and blushing apparently.

“No, we can’t,” John snapped. “You can stay away from sex entirely, thank you.”

“Fine,” Harry grumbled. “What exactly is a consulting detective?”

~

John was absolutely petrified of what was going to happen when Harry took Sherlock out to the patio to talk. As Sherlock glanced back and caught his eye, all John could do was offer a sympathetic smile and try not to let the dread show.

He should have known that Harry would be miserably mischievious. She had been far too elated at the prospect of John dating a man and, predictably, she was giving Sherlock a hard time about it. Lots of flippant comments, lots of innuendos, lots of poking and proding in general. And it wasn’t getting better. John wished he could forcibly remove her — make her behave for this _one_ afternoon. This was important, and she was treating it like ‘make fun of John’s boyfriend’ day. It wasn’t even _about_ Sherlock. All Harry was really interested in was embarrassing John and making everyone feel just a bit uncomfortable.

The worst part was that Sherlock was trying so hard. He hadn’t been impolite or condescending, hadn’t risen to any of Harry’s bait, hadn’t called anyone the various names they deserved. In fact, Sherlock seemed to be genuinely trying to make a decent impression on his family. Which was impossible, really, since Harry was stacking the deck against him. She hadn’t given _Sarah_ this kind of welcome. Not that John was surprised by that. This was exactly why he couldn’t trust her.

And he didn’t trust her not to be horrible to Sherlock one-on-one. When John couldn’t tell her to stop.

He kept looking at Sherlock — pale, shaky, tired Sherlock — who didn’t quite look terrible enough to give away how bad he was feeling. If John didn’t know him as well as he did, he wouldn’t have seen the circles under his eyes, or the slight shake when he picked up his cup of tea, or felt the way he tensed every time he had to speak. And all those little signs had John worrying terribly.

~

“He’s kind of a downer,” Harry grumbled. “But I want to talk to him and make sure he’s as in to John as John is in to him. Don’t want my brother to be hurt.”

She chewed her thumb for a moment before adding to that.

“Oh, and I want to drill him about the sexual aspects. It’s so hilarious to watch the two of them blush.”

~

“So what do you think of John?” Harry asked as soon as they got out to the patio. Sherlock sighed heavily. This was the _last_ person he wanted to talk to about his emotional problems. The very last. Absolutely, completely final person he would choose. And that was _including_ Anderson. He’d probably rather not say anything at all, if Harry was the only person to talk to.

Not like he really had a choice in the matter.

“I love him,” Sherlock said, as honestly as possible. And then he paused, lost for words, not sure how to continue. How could he summarize John? “He’s...a good person. And...perfect. In every way that matters.”

“Ha, ‘perfect’. Are you sure you’re talking about John?” Harry was just being obnoxious now.

“Of course I am. I love John, more than I can express. And he _is_ perfect. He’s everything to me.” Sherlock was trying to be calm, trying to control his tone so that the pain wouldn’t show. He was trying to give her the truth, no matter how much it hurt him to think about right now.

“But are you really ready to marry him?”

“Yes.” Sherlock knew that was true, as his heart throbbed in his chest with how much he wanted that to happen. And how it wasn’t going to. But yes, he very much wanted to marry John. More than anything. “If John chooses me.”

“’If’? You don’t sound very confident.” Harry was smirking, mocking him almost, trying to pick away at details until she found a flaw — a weakness. Sherlock felt her words like a grater on his skin.

“I don’t have a right to be confident. This is John’s choice, not mine.” He wouldn’t win. Harry had to know that. It was obvious. Did they have to stand there and pretend that they both didn’t know?

“But he likes you,” she protested feebly.

“Yes, he does,” Sherlock replied wistfully. He didn’t have the heart to add anything to that. And neither did Harry. The pause stretched on until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“So, do you top or bottom?” Harry’s mischievous smile was back and Sherlock did not like it.

“Excuse me?” Was politesse really worth this? He’d had enough, He couldn’t continue to fake niceties for this rude woman that he would never see again.

“You know. I don’t see John taking it up the arse,” Harry explained with arrogance written across her face, “and you’re pretty, but you never know.”

Harry had said that far too calmly. Sherlock squelched the desire to rip his face off as he felt the blood rush once again into his cheeks. Honestly, was this really any of her business? His thoughts were running in a million different directions as the stress built. Why would anyone want to picture their own sibling in bed or know about their sexual habits? Oh god, this was not the time to be thinking about what that might mean in terms of Mycroft. Mycroft wasn’t ideal, sure, but Harry was being horrible just because she could. Because she was John’s sister and they were surrounded by cameras and Sherlock was trapped in an artful corner. It was utterly deplorable. He didn’t know how John put up with her even as a sibling, but he couldn’t anymore.

“I know you’re a alcoholic with questionable ethics, but you should have some more decorum than that,” Sherlock snapped.

“Who the hell are you to talk?” Harry snarled. Oh, he had hit a nerve. Somehow he was far too satisfied with that fact. “You don’t even know me.”

Huh, her face seemed to contort with anger, but also something else. Maybe loss? Sherlock realized he probably shouldn’t prod at it, but he was tired and angry and depressed and he was going to drag at least one person down with him.

“I can tell enough by how you act,” Sherlock growled back. “I can tell you’re an alcoholic and that your last relationship ended badly, and that you’re jealous of your brother. You’re pathetic. Not that you’ll ever realize it.”

Harry stared at him. “You bastard.”

“I’m not wrong, am I?” He shrugged, watching every muscle in Harry’s body tense and her hands form fists. She might hit him. Please, dear god, if she did let her knock him out properly so he could finally get some sleep.

No such luck. Harry slammed the door open and stormed inside, leaving him alone on the patio. Pity. After a minute of considering his options, Sherlock followed. The sight of John looking back at him over his shoulder kept him going.

~

“What a bastard. I don’t know what the hell John sees in that prick,” Harry growled to the confessional, her rage palpable in the small room. “If he picks that asshole and marries him, I’m going to have to seriously question my brother’s sanity.”

~

“Well, that went well.” Sherlock sighed after his sarcastic words. “Even better than I had hoped. Delightful.”

~

“You’re such an intelligent man,” Cathy cooed as Sherlock finished off his point of view on eighteenth century art. “No wonder John likes you so much. It must be wonderful to go to museums with you.”

“It is,” John said smiling brightly at him. His hand had been on Sherlock’s since he came back, both of them watching as Harry fumed on the couch. At least she was silent now. He could be grateful for that. “Sherlock always has something amazing to talk about.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Cathy replied, flashing a smile back at her son. “It’s been a very pleasant afternoon, Sherlock. I really appreciate your visit.”

“I appreciate you having me,” Sherlock returned, standing and shaking her hand. She wrapped him in a hug instead.

“Any time.” His smile was a bit forced because of the hug, but he was happy to be getting out of there. John’s mother wasn’t entirely awful, even if his sister really was. Not that it mattered at this point.

John got up and escorted him to the door. It was nice to have John beside him. Like he had someone to watch his back. The sense of comfort John brought with him was amazing. Sherlock wondered how long it would take before he became dependent on it. He wasn’t going to get a chance to find out.

John actually stepped outside with him, and shut the door softly behind them.

“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly. “I know that can’t have been pleasant.”

“With the exception of your sister, it wasn’t a terrible visit.” Sherlock found himself smiling despite everything that had happened. Then he cringed. “She said some pretty offensive things and so did I, just so you’re aware. Sorry. I probably should have controlled myself more.”

John surprised him by laughing, loudly and then placing a kiss on his lips, slow and careful, like he might break. His smile got wider. “Don’t be. Harry’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Or honestly mine, for that matter.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, keeping as close to John as possible. “You have no idea how relieving it is to hear that.”

“I’ll talk to her.” John lingered. They should say goodbye. But they didn’t. Like he was trying to spend every second he could with Sherlock. John’s arms were still on his waist, pulling him into a hug, holding him tight, and Sherlock couldn’t have wanted more. He wanted to stay there and sleep in John’s arms, rest in the security he brought. But John had to leave him and Sherlock had to go back to his empty room. His empty flat. It was a long, quiet, silence before John said it. “Well, I suppose you should get back.”

“Yes, I suppose. You need to talk to your family.”

John grimaced. “Yeah.”

“Don’t look so happy.” Sherlock ran his fingers along the side of the other man’s face, lingering in that small contact. He wanted more of that touch, John’s body against his, John. He wanted John. And he wouldn’t have him soon. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

“You will.” John agreed, slightly tilting towards Sherlock’s retreating touch. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Good bye, John.” Sherlock turned and walked back the way he came.

~

John hovered a bit as he watched Sherlock leave. The detective looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, paler than normal. Almost as if he hadn’t slept in a very long time. John hoped that wasn’t the case. It was bad enough that he was losing sleep; Sherlock didn’t need to as well. He was worried. No one deserved sleepless nights and heartbreak. Sherlock least of all.

He had watched Sherlock struggle through being polite, trying his best to impress for John’s sake. He even staved off Harry’s sulking, focused his attention on the conversation and not her nasty quips and glares. John knew how much effort that took — he couldn’t stand Harry when she was in that mood. Sherlock should never have had to deal with that.

And watching Sherlock climb into the waiting car he felt lonely. He wanted more time, time to talk with Sherlock, time to spend together, just time. There wasn’t enough. And he missed the consulting detective already, even though the door had barely closed between them. He stood there, shaking a bit, as the car drove away.

He wanted to follow it. But he turned and opened the door to the house.

“I don’t like him,” Harry said from her chair when John came back in. “He’s a prick.”

“Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean he’s a prick,” John snapped, trying not to fight with her. Sherlock had warned him.

“He seemed nice enough,” Cathy said loudly. “Very educated, and a joy to talk to. I can see why you like him, John.”

“I like him a lot,” John admitted, knowing that was an understatement. “I could spend every day with Sherlock.”

“You have horrible taste,” Harry said with a huge dramatic sigh. “I think you should go with Sarah. If you marry that bastard I will never forgive you.”

“That’s nice,” John replied, in his most neutral voice, even though he was tempted to scream at his sister just like they used to when they lived together at home. He figured it was a battle that wasn’t worth fighting. He already knew that he wasn’t choosing anyone based on Harry. “You’re not the one living with him afterwards, so I don’t think I care.”

“Well, have a good marriage — you won’t be seeing me much.”

“I don’t think that’s a loss.” John heard Harry make a sound that was half growl. He smiled slightly.

“I think they’re both wonderful.” Cathy rested in her chair, her face looking pensive. By this point she was an expert at ignoring her children. “I want you to pick the one that makes you happiest.”

“And which of them makes me happy?” John looked at his mother’s pursed lips and odd facial expression. Like she wanted to come out and say her choice. But she didn’t. That was alright. John really didn’t want to know her opinion.

“I think you know, John. You just need to think about it differently. You’re spending the rest of your life with this person. You won’t have wonderful dates in Austria and loads of free time. You’ll be working and managing bills and trying to get along. Forever. You need to pick the person you can stay with forever. The one you won’t get bored with or regret leaving behind.”

Cathy stood up and walked past her son, stopping to pat him on the shoulder. John just watched. She wasn’t helping. She knew who she thought he should go with, but she wasn’t going to tell him. And John didn’t need her to. At this point he was going through the motions. He had one last date to say goodbye, but his choice was made.

“I’m going to go shopping, with my last few hours in Austria. I’ll be back in a while, dear.”

~

“Well, Harry’s no help at all, and neither is my mum,” John lamented to the confessional. “I’m glad they met Sherlock and Sarah, but I’m also glad it’s over.”

~

Cathy clutched her bags with a bit of worry as she walked through the market. She was shopping, certainly, but it wasn’t fully occupying her. She was worried. And, yes, that was silly — John was happy and in love — but she couldn’t help but feel it. Sarah had been so nice and well-suited to him that she couldn’t help but be excited for him, excited for _them_.

But then Sherlock had come. And Sherlock had lit up John’s eyes and sat beside him and fit in. Not with Harry, not with their family — he fit with _John_. Perfectly. The two of them sat beside each other like they belonged there. Like separating them was impossible.

And that was worrying her. For more than one reason. Because if John picked Sherlock, he was in for a world of trouble with his father and Harry and God knows who else. But if he picked Sarah, he might eventually be miserable.

And yet, she was pretty positive he was going to go with Sarah. Because Sarah was right in all the right ways. And Sarah was the future wife. Sherlock wasn’t. Sherlock would never be.

She didn’t want to meddle, though. It was John’s choice and John’s life and she wouldn’t tell him different. Sarah was an easier choice and she really would be a great match for John. He’d still have a long and happy relationship. It just wouldn’t be the same kind of intense that Sherlock was. Maybe that wasn’t so bad. She could certainly see how it wouldn’t be.

But right now it was going to hurt him to leave Sherlock.

And all the sorrow and pain she read in John’s face said that he was already saying his goodbyes.

~

He went to bed that night feeling crappy, but not as much as usual. Nights of not sleeping well had taken their toll on John Watson, and he barely had time to stress himself out before falling asleep. Nine in the morning came around before he was aware again and by that point he had to rush out to meet Sarah.

She got the first date this week. Sherlock got the last date before the engagement.

He met her at the Salzburg Museum — not that the location mattered. The art and architecture were basically background to their conversation and John knew it. He wanted to have all the time in the world to have fun with Sarah, but what they really needed to do was talk about everything that was going on. Talk about what happened next, if anything. That was what these last dates were really about.

“John!” Sarah cried, running up to meet him. He caught her in a hug and landed a quick kiss on her smiling cheek before pulling back.

“Excited, are we?” John asked, casually. He already knew she was. He could see every bit of it in her face. And, unlike Sherlock, she actually looked well. That wasn’t really a relief, though — it just brought up more worry. Sherlock had looked so tired yesterday. And it was hard not to be reminded of that exhaustion when he saw the vibrance in Sarah’s face.

“Of course I am. We’re having our last date. It’s going to be incredible.” She took his hand, slipping her fingers into his. John hesistated before curling his fingers around hers. “Did your mother and sister get home alright?”

“Yeah, the trip was fine. I’m sure Harry’s glad to be back in London.” The two of them had left late the evening before, catching a red-eye back to England. John couldn’t say he was sorry to see them go; when Harry wasn’t pouting, she was griping to him about Sherlock. It wasn’t a pleasant mix, and it certainly wasn’t alleviating his stress levels. “Did you like visiting with them?”

“I adored it,” Sarah reassured him. He didn’t know how she could have, but that was alright; it’s not like John could protest her liking his family. He started to lead her through the entrance of the museum. “I never thought I would get along with them as well as I did.”

“They were pretty fond of you as well. My mother said you were a darling.” His hand tightened a bit. She was definitely his family’s choice. They had liked her so much better, even though Sherlock had put a lot more effort into his visit. He could still hear Harry’s words on the couch — Sherlock was a prick, but Sarah was wonderful. It wasn’t fair to Sherlock. But nothing ever seemed to be.

“John, you’re making me blush.” She rubbed at her cheeks as if the redness would go away if she scrubbed at it. No such luck. “I’m just glad they liked me.”

“They did.” John smiled as she took her hand back, happy just to stand close to her. He needed to be less tense. Needed to let himself relax. That shouldn’t be so hard.“Are you ready to go look at the exhibitions?”

“Of course.”

~

The inside of the museum was huge, empty, and white walled, topped by ornate painted ceilings. Sarah was walking ahead, pausing in front of paintings and artifacts to examine them or read the plaques. John could see her take in every minute detail as they wandered along the great hall.

At the moment, John was content just to follow her. He felt...melancholic. Bittersweet. Unsurprisingly, really. This was the exact reason he hadn’t wanted to be a part of this production. It was a shallow thing that toyed with people’s emotions. But this shallow show had let him fall in love, had given him more than enough reason to be there. But this was the part he hated. Today and tomorrow were about the choice he had made.

He watched Sarah’s hair brush softly across her cheekbone. She really was a pretty woman. And he knew firsthand how sweet she was. He felt like everyone else was assuming that _of course_ he’d pick Sarah. Not even a question. But it hadn’t been that simple. It might have been if Sherlock hadn’t been here. Sarah represented everything he had wanted.

It was surprising when Sarah started up the conversation.

“Did you want to talk about our relationship?” she asked quietly, squeezing his hand for reassurance and making eye contact for the first time in a few minutes. He knew why she was asking — the production insisted they talk about this. “I don’t know what you want to ask me, but I think it might help take your mind off of your decision if we talk about it. Then you can relax and enjoy yourself for a while.”

John smiled weakly. Trust Sarah to try and make him feel better. Even though there wasn’t really a chance that this _would_ make him feel better. But he could pretend for her sake.

“I’m not really sure what to ask you either.” He paused, losing himself in the figures and shadows of the painting in front of them. “I suppose I should ask you what you would want from this relationship?”

“I want the same thing everyone wants,” Sarah said with a small laugh. Not laughing at him, just herself. Good natured. “Someone who loves me as much as I love them. Maybe a family later on. Possibly children. Normal things. And I know I can have that with you, John.”

That was pretty much exactly what he had expected her to say. He knew almost all the answers to the questions Dave had suggested that he ask. By this point he knew Sarah well enough to know how she answered the easy questions. He didn’t need to ask, and he didn’t really want to discuss them. He would have preferred just to enjoy her company. Neither of them needed this.

“Do you think we’ll be engaged by the end of the week?” he inquired softly. It wasn’t his question — he didn’t need to ask anything so blunt. But Steve wanted him to even if he didn’t need to hear Sarah’s answer.

“I hope so,” Sarah answered wistfully. “I feel like we have a very strong bond and have built something really special together. I want to be able to take that further, and I can honestly say I’ll be disappointed if I don’t get that chance.”

“You don’t seem nervous,” John replied. But not harshly. He wasn’t here to reprimand her for _not_ being an emotional mess. God knows they had enough emotional messes with just him. He just wanted to know how she managed to be so calm. This ran so deep now, it could hurt so many people. But she was still so serene and sweet, just like always. Constant and calm.

“I trust you,” she answered simply. “If we don’t get engaged I’ll know you have a good reason.”

He nodded slightly, contemplating that.

One more thing came to mind and John wasn’t sure if he should broach the subject, but at the same time he really wanted to know. “Sarah? What do you think of Sherlock?”

She hadn’t been expecting that. He saw it in her face, a bit of mild surprise. She didn’t run from the question, though.

“He’s very intelligent, very interesting, and surprisingly handsome, but he’s not a very nice person. Honestly, he’s condescending and sometimes rude and just a little cruel. I mean, he was easy enough to get along with in a large group. But he belittles people like he thinks everyone should be as smart as he is. I can’t really see him as a good spouse to _anyone_. But I suppose that’s not my choice.”

She was frowning, displeased with the whole question, displeased with her own answer. John couldn’t really blame her for that; she probably didn’t want to talk about Sherlock right now. But he wanted to know. Hearing even Sarah talk disaparagingly about Sherlock was painful, though. It left a sick feeling in his stomach to listen to that yet again.

“You’d be disappointed in me if I picked him?” he asked, not able to resist that much of a response. Sarah gave him a _look_. She wasn’t happy considering that.

“Yes, I can say I would be. I know it’s not my choice, but I would never want you to end up with someone I thought might be a bad match for you. You’re so kind and sweet. He’s not.”

Some part of him wanted to point out that Sherlock was a different kind of sweet. He wasn’t the kind to treat everyone nicely or hold back his insults, but he was honest, even when it hurt or wasn’t comfortable. And he thought so hard about everything when it involved someone he _did_ like. He was fair more than sweet, maybe. But that fairness was so thorough that it had the same effect. How did he explain that to someone who didn’t see it?

“He’s not typically nice, no,” John said, unable to stop himself. “But there’s more to him than that.”

Sarah looked like she wanted to say more, but didn’t. “I trust you, John. You don’t have to explain Sherlock.”

“Thank you,” John murmured, letting that be the end of it. Sherlock didn’t have a place here right now, no matter how much John wanted him to. This was about Sarah and Sarah deserved his attention.

That was the thought that he tried to hold on to as they started walking again, the silence not as comfortable as before.

~

The silence had passed quickly, and they spent the afternoon looking at the upper levels of the museum and wandering through the streets, stopping for some quick food before making their way back to the hotel. Sarah led him up to her room, and offered him a seat on the sofa in her small sitting room.

“I’ve got something for you, John,” she said happily, rummaging through her bags for a moment. John waited, patiently, feeling drained. The producers had warned him about presents. Neither Sarah or Sherlock _had_ to get him something, of course — it was just strongly suggested. As a ‘memento’ from their time together, for him to remember them by. Like he could forget.

She straightened up abruptly, a small package clasped in her hands. It was wrapped in blue paper, and very neatly tied with a bow.

“Sarah, you shouldn’t have gotten me anything,” John protested with a small smile wondering offhandedly if Sherlock would get him something too. He’d like that. She shushed him.

“Open it. It’s nothing big.”

He unwrapped a book. Filled with pictures and small comments, and little scraps of all the places they had been to together. All their dates. Everything he had done with Sarah had been immaculately catalogued, with her little notes, and handwritten letters. It was gorgeous.

“Sarah, this is amazing,” he said reverently. It had taken a lot of work to put this together.

“It’s not much. I was doing it for myself anyway. But I thought it would be nicer for you, to have all those memories catalogued and kept safe.”

“Thank you,” John murmured, holding the book gently as he stared at it. It weighed heavily in his hands. Pictures, places, feelings. The delicate hand on his knee startled him.

“I think it’s time you head off now,” Sarah said, punctuating it with a kiss. “I know you need rest, and time to think, so go take it, alright? I’ll see you in a couple days and we can talk more then.”

“Alright,” John said, not bothering to add the ‘maybe’ to her sentence. She didn’t need it to be there. “Thank you. For the present and the great day.”

“Anytime, John.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You needed a day to enjoy yourself.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t tell her how exhausting it had been. “Good night, Sarah.”

~

“It was a perfect way to finish our dates,” Sarah cooed. She was practically glowing. “But I’m really looking forward to seeing him again in two days. ”

~

John lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, very much unable to do anything but turn over the day in his mind. Sarah’s book was lying on the coffee table, giving him an accusing stare. Or at least, he felt it was an accusing stare. _You don’t appreciate her enough_. He couldn’t help but feel that it was right. He didn’t. He hadn’t been able to take his mind off Sherlock all day.

Sherlock who looked so tired, so emotional, so broken right now. Whose logic seemed to have been ripped from him and thrown in the mud to be crushed beneath John’s feet. And John didn’t want to hurt him anymore, but it couldn’t be helped. There was nothing he could do to make Sherlock feel better, to make these last few days easier, and that was killing John slowly.

All this felt unnecessary and torturous. He had made his choice last week, right after the rose ceremony. It had felt hard at the time, but as the seconds inched by he realized how easy it had really been. It was harder to say goodbye than it was to know his choice. This week of family and long, slow dates was just painful. For all of them.

If he could have done anything right then, it would have been to end things. To let Sherlock out of his misery. To let Sarah know what he’d picked. To move on.

He had two more days before he could move on.

~

“Steve,” Dave muttered, standing very close to the producer. John could just barely hear what they were saying as he waited in the cleared street, the cameras hovering around him. This was always his least favourite part. “He doesn’t look good.”

“What?” Steve asked in a harsh whisper, glancing at John almost as if looking for a sign of illness he had missed before. John looked pointedly uninterested. “What’s wrong with him?”

“No, it’s Sherlock. Looks like he hasn’t slept in a while. Dark circles, a bit clumsy, really shaky.” Dave’s words weren’t mean, just worried. Even _Dave_ was worried. John felt sick. “I know he’s looked rough before, but this is the worst I’ve ever seen him. By far.”

“Has he seen a medic?” Steve ran a hand across his forehead, rubbing away the tension.

“No. He refused. Sounds like it’s just stress.”

“Shit,” Steve murmured. “Shit.”

“He’s insisting on coming anyway, but I thought I’d give you a warning.” Dave shrugged. “Not sure what else we can do.”

“Nothing. All we can do is hope he films better than he looks.” Steve sighed with his grimace looking stalwartly resigned. “He’s just gotta hold up for today and tomorrow. He’ll be alright.”

John felt his stomach plummet. ‘He’ll be alright’ was not a good anwer in his books. He wanted to see Sherlock so badly. He needed to make sure he was okay, make sure he was still going to be okay. Desperately.

He needed Sherlock to be alright, or he didn’t know how he’d go on.

~

Sherlock climbed out of the car in front of Mozart’s residence and John caught his eye from beneath the curved, heavy stone doorway. Instantly, he knew what had the crew concerned. Sherlock looked more than awful. His usual finesse, the minute control he had over his actions, was gone. His hands were shoved into pockets almost too casually, like they weren’t doing his bidding. The dark circles under his eyes were worse, almost like a faint bruise against his pale skin, starker for the contrast with his dark hair. His eyes themselves were faintly bloodshot, exhausted, and didn’t focus as intently as they used to. Even his confident walk was gone, replaced with a firmly suppressed gait that barely kept one foot in front of the other.

John got closer to him and pressed a kiss firmly onto his lips, holding him close, feeling the slow steadying breath passing through Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s arms wound around him slowly, pulling him closer.

“I missed you,” John murmured softly when they separated. Sherlock’s smile was almost pressed against his still.

“I missed you too, John.” His words tasted warm, sweet, comforting. And John tried to focus back on where they were, what they were supposed to be doing. He tried. “I like your choice of location.”

“I thought you might appreciate Mozart,” John said with a smile as they pulled back, instinctively not too far from Sherlock. Protective. “I know you like your music.”

“I do,” Sherlock agreed, taking in the sight of the residency. Drinking it in but seeming far away at the same time. “Shall we?”

“Have you been feeling alright?” John asked, as he took Sherlock through the heavy doors. Sherlock glanced at him then away, choosing to stare instead at the harpsichords lining the hall.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock was not fine. That particular tone of voice told John everything. Somehow the flat undertones were speaking volumes against Sherlock’s false statement. And as he took the other’s man hand he could feel the slight tremble. Somehow, with just those little signs, John could tell just how incredibly not alright he was.

“You look tired,” John pushed. He wanted to know. He wanted to help if he could.

“I am _fine_ , John.”

“You don’t look fine.” Sherlock looked at him again, eyes empty and sad, lifeless. John felt so lost. Sherlock may as well have been terminally ill for all John could do, but he still wanted to make him feel better. Wanted this pain and hollowness to leave him.

“I am tired, but I will be fine. Stop fretting about it and try to enjoy our time together. Please?” Sherlock softened on the please, tugging gently on John’s heart. Begging for him to let it go.

“Alright,” John sighed, feeling the knot tighten in his stomach at his passivity. This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not what he wanted to do. He didn’t have a choice — the cameras were watching. “I’ll try. But let me know if it gets worse, yeah?”

“I’ll be fine.” The determination in his voice didn’t leave room for a protest.

~

Sherlock trailed his fingers lightly across the top of the piano. They had made their way through the museums and the gardens outside to the concert hall they were now in. The room was stunning — all carved motifs in yellow and gold, draped with velvet curtains and finished with the wood floor. Add in the orange, gentle light of the sunset streaming through the windows, and John could hardly have picked a more romantic place.

But John could see the subtle changes in Sherlock’s demeanor. Every time Sherlock paused and had to ask John to repeat himself, every moment of too long silence, every tiny little fumble of his fingers froze John’s heart. Sherlock felt dead. His eyes were dead. His hands were dead. His tone was dead. And he would try for John — try so hard — to look like it was the same. That he was alright and enjoying himself and as energetic as always. But he wasn’t.

He had been getting worse as time went on. The exhaustion that had been worrying at first was palpable now, hugging Sherlock like a cloak, keeping him away from John, keeping him lost in his own darkness.

And yet, he was playing make believe. Because neither of them wanted anything this difficult on film. Because the cameras were suddenly very there and very intrusive. Because it was their last date. No one needed this ending.

So instead, John chatted idly. About nothing. John _himself_ couldn’t remember what he had said. Sherlock seemed to, though, so the conversation kept going. But when they had reached the hall, there had been a lull. Sherlock had been absorbed in tracing fixtures and carvings and the piano, and John hadn’t the heart to interrupt him. He just watched the beautiful man slowly work his way up and then across the stage with a melancholic awe.

The trail of Sherlock’s fingers on that glossy black wasn’t sensuous so much as thoughtful, needy. Like he had found some reassurance in the darkened wood, some small certainty to cling to. John wanted him to have that, because the uncertainty was killing him. Sherlock was dying right in front of him, murdered by John’s secrets and poisoned by the suspense. A slow, cruel, torturous denouement. And John couldn’t make it hurt any less. His hands were tied and his tongue was tied and his heart was breaking with Sherlock’s pain. All he could do right then was watch as Sherlock lost himself in something that didn’t hurt him.

After a few minutes, Sherlock seemed to shake himself and come to a decision.

He silently slid down onto the piano bench and exposed the keys, the cover slapping into place louder than he had expected. Sherlock winced at the noise and John’s heart stilled. Sherlock’s hands shook violently as he lifted them, carefully, towards the keys, hands and arms not doing what he wanted. For a moment, his hands curled into fists and he made a sharp, sudden motion — almost a slam, if it had connected with anything — and the trembling subsided, still there, still noticeably quivering, but mangeable. And he lowered his spread fingers onto the keys and closed his eyes.

He was going to play.

He watched as Sherlock’s blue-grey eyes fluttered open, focussing on the keys beneath his hands. Then the first few triplets of _Moonlight Sonata_ rang through the hall, slow and trodding, heavy as the lead he was sure was in Sherlock’s heart. But John felt it wrap around him, felt the music embrace him as he watched Sherlock’s long, thin hands hit every key with clear precision, etching the ostinato into the air, letting the quiet notes swell with the weight of his emotions, pulling them out of Sherlock long enough for him to regain control. Giving him strength. Support.

John couldn’t look away.

And he jumped when Sherlock spoke.

“I guess we’re supposed to talk about our relationship, John,” he said, calmly. The pain in his voice was still there, but different. Serene, like it was accepted pain. Pain that was being cared for.

“Is there anything you need to talk about?” John asked, politely, feeling the first few thudding notes of the melody landing hard in his chest, despite their ethereal sound. Really, he didn’t want to do this. Sherlock didn’t need this.

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, controlled and rhythmic, clattering amongst the sustained chords and swaying triplets. “But you have to ask me.”

“I do,” John murmured, barely audible above the music. But he knew Sherlock had heard him, even if the consulting detective didn’t acknowledge it. “I guess I should ask you where you see this relationship going?”

Sherlock’s notes barely paused, an unnoticeable gap in the rhythm, but he recoiled slightly — as if John had reached out and hit him. John moved closer, trying protect him by just being there.

“I love you. I want to marry you.” Sherlock’s voice was halting and uncertain beneath the slow waves of music. He could hear the tightness in Sherlock’s throat, the slight rasp in his words as he continued. “I’m certain, absolutely certain, that I could spend the rest of my life with you and be very happy. Very happy.”

A low chord reverberated in John’s chest, deep and sullen. A heavy heartbeat, hammering against his ribcage.

“John, you mean everything to me, and I hope I’ve shown you that.”

Sherlock’s fingers slipped, the flat note clanking against the rest of tune.

“That you know that.”

The notes trembled and John watched as Sherlock’s fingers went from weightless to clumsy, stumbling through the motions, desperate not to stop.

“Above all else, I just want you to know.”

Sherlock didn’t look up. Didn’t meet John’s eyes. But he didn’t have to.

“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

Sherlock frowned slightly, as if he had not quite said what he wanted to. Or maybe more than he wanted to. John caught his eyes for the first time in awhile, seeing the emotion in them outlined in the bruising of exhaustion. Then Sherlock looked away again. Down. Back to his keys. Building the crescendo.

“I don’t think I deserve that much,” John said, trying not to sound worried out of his mind. Something was really wrong with Sherlock. They were drowning in his music, in his pain, in his heartache. “But thank you.”

An exasperated sigh. Sherlock scowled at his notes, his fingers steady again, the rhythm supporting him once more.

“John, we are _all_ enamored with you. Anyone who isn’t is a bloody fool. You don’t have to worry about you, or your decisions, or anything else.” The notes rumbled out from the piano, and then faded as the pitch went higher. “You’re the only genuinely _good_ person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not that good.” John didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. But he was absolutely touched that Sherlock thought so. Because out of everyone, it meant the most when it came from Sherlock. It only ever meant something when it came from Sherlock. “Thank you, though. It means a lot that you think that.”

A clear, crystalline high note. And then a dive back into the tide of triplets.

“John, don’t be so modest; you’re good in every single way that matters,” Sherlock snorted. “That’s why you’re the perfect candidate for this Bachelor nonsense.”

“Thank you,” John murmured, resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He paused, heart in his throat, hand warmed by Sherlock’s closeness. He had to ask one more question. “Do you think we’ll be engaged tomorrow?”

Sherlock’s notes faltered again, this time catastrophically, his keys clashing, fingers trembling, the music crashing to an abrupt halt. His hands shook on the keys, so he moved them. Picked them up and placed his shaking palms on his knees, curling his treacherous fingers into the fabric of his trousers. The sorrow and hopelessness in his voice was louder than the piano had been.

“I would like that. More than anything.”

All at once it was obvious. Sherlock was shattering because he thought he had already lost. And John couldn’t reassure him. Couldn’t help him. Couldn’t end his pain. He couldn’t say anything at all.

John couldn’t leave it, though. Couldn’t let him just sit and think that way. Even if he couldn’t be much reassurance. His arms were around Sherlock before he had time to think about it.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, just holding the other man, clinging to the shoulders of a violinist who couldn’t play. Sherlock didn’t really respond. “You’re incredible. I mean that.”

“You’re an idiot, John,” Sherlock said in a choking murmur. But he turned and sank himself into John, his head against John’s chest, holding as tight as humanly possible. For those few moments John could convince himself that Sherlock was alright. He was there, and real, and in his arms, safe. As safe as John could make him. For those few seconds he could keep Sherlock from falling apart. He kissed Sherlock’s head, feeling the muscle tension ease out of the other man’s body, the weakness that came from exhaustion. The consulting detective burrowed his face into him, breathing John’s scent, pulling as close as he could get and holding tight. His fingers were still trembling slightly as they clung to John’s back.

And John would take care of him. If only for the evening, John would take care of him.

~

“Alright,” Steve said, addressing his intern with stern words. “We got great footage today and I _need_ you to follow that up.”

Billy nodded, mostly disinterested. He was on hallway duty, which was always his least favourite. Nothing like sleeping cramped up against a door all night. At least he was on the _interesting_ door. Frank had Sarah’s room, and the chances of her doing something exciting were slim to none.

“But we’re not wasting film on them sleeping or on stupid chatting,” Steve continued, his tirade falling on apathetic ears. “So if they’re not being exciting? Bail out. Sit outside and leave your mic on. You’ve got the after-dinner shift, so you’ll have back up until they’re done fussing around with food. At that point, you’re on your own.”

“Sure,” Billy agreed. This was standard. And he was really just sick of everything that Steve said right now. The pompous ass had made the mistake of telling him and Frank about how he never writes recommendation letters. Which was the whole _point_ of doing a long, crappy, upaid internship. There was no way he was doing Steve any big favours or worrying too much about instructions. At this point, he just wanted to finish up his last two days and go back to paid work.

Work actually seemed great. He never thought he’d say that. Ever.

“This is your master key,” Steve sighed, handing the card key to him. “If you hear _anything_ — I mean _anything_ — remotely exciting, raised voices, weird sounds, anything, you head straight back in there and get it all on camera. No matter what. I’ve lost enough major developments to the black hole that is Sherlock’s room. Don’t miss _anything_.”

“Sure,” Billy said again. A lot had happened in Sherlock’s room that hadn’t made it onto a camera, but he couldn’t blame them. Surely John and Sherlock deserved some privacy too? Even just once in a while. Especially when it came to four-in-the-morning visits. Especially with what may happen tomorrow.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Steve growled. “This is important.”

“I’ll be fine,” Billy said with a stretch. “I can handle it.”

“Alright.” Steve didn’t seem to quite believe him but was going to let him go anyway. Billy considered that a rather huge mistake.

~

They went back to Sherlock’s room — which was coincidentally on the opposite side of the hotel from Sarah’s — and brought some takeout with them. Nothing fancy. Pasta and bread.

Sherlock hadn’t touched his food though. He had simply put his plate down on the desk and watched John eat, not even bothering to push the noodles around first. He’d just sat beside him, pressing his hip up against John’s and waiting. John was starving. But seeing Sherlock avoid food killed his appetite.

“Sherlock,” John cajoled, his voice quiet, “you need to eat.”

“I can’t.” Sherlock’s voice was plaintive, asking for something John wasn’t sure of. “I don’t have an appetite.”

“When was the last time you ate?” The worry came out in his voice, sounding a bit more panicked than he wanted.

“Yesterday, I think,” Sherlock said with a sigh. He sounded defeated. “Please, John. Don’t make me discuss this.”

John couldn’t look into Sherlock’s eyes and protest. He simply couldn’t. No matter how horribly worried he was, he couldn’t bring himself to bicker right now.

“I have something for you,” Sherlock said after a few silent moments. John put his mostly finished plate aside and watched as the consulting detective moved to rummage in the closet.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” John said, but the words were hollow. He desperately had wanted a memento from Sherlock — something that was him.

“It’s nothing extravagant,” Sherlock replied, slowly fishing something out of the pocket of his coat and fussing with it. The keys jangled a bit as he put them back. “I saw you looking at my skull in my flat, and you seemed to like it, so...”

He sat down beside John on the couch and pressed something small into John’s palm, using both of his hands to curl John’s fingers around it and holding them both there for a moment, silently offering his token of affection.

“It’s my portable skull,” Sherlock murmured as he let John open his hand to inspect the small plastic keychain. “It’s not much, but I hope it will make you think of me.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John whispered against the stone in his throat. It was perfect. A small piece of Sherlock to keep near him. “It’s incredible.”

“Hardly.” Sherlock’s laugh sounded sad. “But I hope it will do.”

“It’s exactly what I would have wanted,” John said with a smile, trailing his fingers across Sherlock’s jaw and leaning forward into a soft kiss. “Thank you.”

The first few cameramen started to leave then, giving them some space, leaving them with a single crew member. It was harder not to notice them now. Harder not to feel like they were being watched at all times. And Sherlock sat beside him while John put an arm around his thin waist and pulled him close, let him rest there as tired as he was. Just waiting. Just being close together.

The two of them sat there, hurting, watched, adrift. Sherlock anchored to John’s heart, the shadows drifting across his face. After a few minutes of that blissful silence, the last camera sidled out of the room, leaving them alone.

Even then, they sat still for a long time before either of them spoke. But John had to end it. Sherlock didn’t deserve this. He couldn’t sit there and look into Sherlock’s eyes and not tell him what was happening.

“Sherlock, tomorrow–”

“No,” Sherlock said forcefully, his blue-grey eyes searing straight into John’s, flooded with pain. It was such a powerful emotion, such a raw contact, that John almost felt himself reeling. “I don’t want to hear it. Tomorrow you’ll go out and you’ll get engaged to Sarah and it will all be perfect.”

John opened his mouth again, but the detective brushed a finger over his lips, effectively silencing him. John felt his stomach contract, a sickness spreading over him as Sherlock continued.

“Stop. There is nothing you can say. She can give you things I’ll _never_ be able to. I’m not good enough for you, and that’s not going to change. You deserve to be happy, and you’ll be happy with Sarah. I love you and I wouldn’t want that taken away from you, no matter how much it hurts me.”

Sherlock’s head bowed and tilted away from him, his finger still resting on John’s lips as he tried to force out the next few words. “Even if I know it means that it all ends tomorrow. Just, please...”

The detective turned his face back up at John, a glint of tears running down his cheeks. Involuntarily, John’s fingers brushed against that small bead of salt water, catching it and wiping it away, trying to wipe away all the hurt that came with it, trying to hold Sherlock together.

This was cruel.

Out of everyone, John hadn’t wanted to be cruel to Sherlock, but his throat constricted as he watched those silent tears sliding down Sherlock’s pale cheeks, across the shadows under his eyes, landing softly on John’s thumb. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Paralyzed by the hopelessness in those eyes, John was lost. Before he regained control of his voice, Sherlock grimaced and shook his head, pulling out of his grip.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m not used to dealing with things like this. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t want you to hurt, and I don’t want your guilt.” Sherlock pressed his eyes closed for a brief moment, forcibly stalling the tears. “You shouldn’t be guilty over this. Not over me.”

“Sherlock,” John rasped, feeling the tears building in his own eyes, feeling the pressure on his vocal chords. He had to tell him. But Sherlock wouldn’t stop to listen and John couldn’t bear to force him into silence.

“And I know it’s probably wrong, but...please.” Sherlock took John’s hand in both of his, squeezing it tightly. The words came out broken and halting, desperate and shaking — and John felt them just as desperately, needed them just as much.“I know that you have to tomorrow, but please don’t go yet. Please don’t let me go.” Sherlock looked up at John, like he was never going to look away again. Pleading, begging. “Please stay with me tonight. Please, John.”

The detective’s voice seem to choke more as the last word passed over his lips, like it was one of the last times he was going to say it. Like he was using his last breath to say John’s name.

And John wanted it as badly as Sherlock did. He wanted to hold the detective in his arms, squeeze out the hurt and replace it with something better. He wanted to be close to him — pressed against him, no further than a heartbeat away. And he couldn’t do without that right now. He couldn’t possibly leave right now.

“I’m staying, Sherlock. As long as you want me here, I’ll stay.”

With that, the detective seemed to crumple into him, and John wrapped his arms around the other man, pressing him close. He never wanted to let go. Never wanted Sherlock to be out of his sight or out of his arms, didn’t think he could bear that. Sherlock was shaking, and John could feel the wetness of fresh tears through the fabric of his shirt. His heart throbbed in his chest, wrenching with the emotions that were crowding it, near to crying himself. This hurt. It hurt so badly. And all John wanted was to stay with this man, hold him close and keep him from breaking. Stop his pain.

Not being able to say anything or even knowing where to start, he held Sherlock with all the tenderness he could give as he sobbed almost imperceptibly into John’s shoulder. _Fuck_ , did he love him. He loved this man so much it was almost unbearable.

“I’ll stay,” he repeated, murmuring softly into Sherlock’s hair. They both needed this right now.

Cupping the detective’s face in his hand, he tilted it upward, taking a moment to stare into Sherlock’s eyes, before kissing him. The other man seemed to melt into him, and he felt a hand at the back of his neck, pressing him closer into the slow, languid kiss. John’s hand was laid firmly against Sherlock’s chest, right over his beating heart.

He felt the thudding in his chest, the heavy pound against his palm, Sherlock’s tongue against his, each pulling the other closer. The detective’s hands had slid up under John’s shirt; fingers wandering over his torso seeming to soak in John’s every breath and feel. It was sensual, and slow and everything John needed.

John’s hands slid towards Sherlock’s buttons, undoing them, letting himself retrace the places he had tried to memorize on Sherlock’s body. Letting himself absorb the other man, his breathing, his movements, the feel of his skin. Even though they were moving at a crawl with a whole different set of emotions than before, this time felt more desperate with a whole new ache of need. Somehow needing to take their time was part of the desperation. They both needed to enjoy this, needed to revel in the light touches of fingers on his ribcage. Needed to feel a hand against his scar.

He needed Sherlock. And Sherlock needed him.

As the detective’s shirt slid from his shoulders, John couldn’t help but plant kisses on the exposed alabaster skin. The faintest yellow tinge of a bruise still lingered there, on his collarbone, remnants of John’s touch. Every inch of him needed to be covered with affection, like a blanket that could keep him safe. Keep him warm. He didn’t want to feel the coldness he could see spreading through Sherlock’s heart. He never wanted to see that coldness — the deadness. And maybe for now, John could keep him warm.

Sherlock shuddered, gasping for air, clinging to John whose mouth moved gently to the pulse point on Sherlock’s neck. The doctor was relishing the feeling of this amazing man, alive, and here with him. Right where he should be. Right where he should stay. And the taste of Sherlock’s skin was so much better than the taste of tears on his lips. The feeling of a hand on his hip, on his thigh, so much better than emptiness there was without Sherlock. Sherlock was there, and John could feel him, and they were so close.

He was getting hard with the slow anticipation, and he could feel Sherlock’s erection pressing itself against his leg. John slid his knee up gently, putting pressure on Sherlock’s cock, letting him feel the friction between them. Moving slowly, shifting himself slightly to touch as much of Sherlock as possible. Needing to feel him under John’s fingers, his mouth, his hips. Needing more contact.

“Please, John,” Sherlock pleaded, the fingers of one hand dipping slightly below the waistband of John’s trousers. John didn’t need to hear any more. He pulled out of his shirt and struggled to slip off his trousers as Sherlock discarded the rest of his clothing. His sturdy arm slid underneath Sherlock’s bony shoulders, supporting him, carrying his weight. As John lifted the other man off the couch and guided him towards the bed, his hands rested on the perfect lines of his waist, just grazing across the skin. Soft skin beneath his rough fingertips, enough contact between the two of them to feel how naked, how vulnerable they were, how much they trusted each other. Enough contact to give him chills, and enough to satisfy him for a just a moment.

Sherlock lay down, knocking several books that had been sitting on the duvet to the floor with one motion, and John wasted no time getting on top of him, kissing him passionately with all the desperation of a dying man. He felt that desperate. Like his life could depend on this one night. His hands found purchase on Sherlock’s sides, in his hair, along the lines of his shoulders. His prick found relief in their slow arches and bucks, their bodies moving together as their lips pressed them close. Their shared breath uniting them. Their need keeping them close.

It was going to be too much if he wasn’t careful. His tongue pressed deeper and Sherlock writhed underneath him, arching himself into John, hands on his waist. Their erections pressed together and a gasp ran through both of them, a need that sent a shock through John's groin.

Sherlock broke the kiss to roughly open the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed. He dug in his hand and pulled out the bottle of lube from last week. He squirted some of the cold gel into his palm, before handing it over the John. Then the detective’s hand snaked down between them, taking a hold of both their cocks.

John moaned, low and deep, the noise spreading from deep in his lungs. It felt so good, so complete, like Sherlock’s hand was keeping him alive. He was struggling to keep his head as Sherlock slowly stroked them both, his whole body screaming for more friction and more pressure. The slide of fingers made his toes curl with pleasure, made his hips jump with the sensation.

Spreading the lube over his fingers, John struggled to restrain himself. Passionate desperation wasn’t a good reason to be rough. Leisurely, sensuously, he traced the rim of Sherlock’s entrance, feeling his hand pause for just a moment at the first touch. Hearing the wanton groan as he very slowly inserted one finger. Sherlock barely tensed at all this time, clearly focused on steadily moving his hand, on keeping them both hard and distracted. John let another moan escape his throat, enjoying every fractured touch, the heavy breathing he could hear from the other man, everything. Everything was wrapping him in a cocoon of pleasure and need.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, brow creased, his chest heaving with the pleasure. John couldn’t look away. The lust was fascinating, Sherlock’s every minute motion lighting up the shadows of the dark room, warming with the yellow light of the lamp. A better subject than any artwork, a masterpiece that left John breathless. He twirled his finger around gently, stretching Sherlock a bit, letting him adjust to the sensation. Then, gradually, he slipped in another finger, pushing on Sherlock’s prostate with one gratifying motion. The detective’s hand stopped moving as his hips bucked involuntarily.

“ _John_! Oh, _fuck_ , please,” Sherlock rolled back against the pillow as the doctor continued to stretch and stroke inside him. Every twitch of Sherlock around his fingers sent a shock through him. The electric feeling of Sherlock’s desire was making him ache for touch. Ache to be inside him. Adding another finger, John felt Sherlock’s muscles again tense and relax. He continued working and pressing against the other man’s prostate, until Sherlock was thrusting against him, clamouring for contact, silently begging for the same connection that John needed. The sheen glistening off his body drew John’s eyes, following a drop of sweat from his chest down to his cock, watching it slowly meander across Sherlock’s pale skin.

Neither of them could wait any longer and it only took a moment for John to position himself between Sherlock’s legs. Slowly, savouring the tightness, John slid in, let Sherlock take all of him, let him adjust. He could feel the blood throb in his prick, and Sherlock’s muscles tightening around him, and it was all so right. The flood of sensation drowned him.

Sherlock’s hands had settled on John’s hips. He was panting and flushed, half-lidded eyes looking at John with a mixture of lust, turmoil, and want. He was sure he looked the same; the same emotions were swirling through him. He wanted to hold on to something. Desperately. To keep him there. To stay there forever.

He grabbed Sherlock’s hands, one in each of his own, and started thrusting. Push in, deep, hard, slow. And pull back, carefully, tenderly. The rhythm built, Sherlock driving back against John’s movements, their fingers interlaced as they lay on the bed.

“Unh, _oooooh_.” Sherlock was being more vocal this time, and likewise any inhibitions John may have had were dissolving.

“Ah,” he gasped, the soft noise landing in Sherlock’s ear, John’s chest pressed hard against the other man’s, breathing in tandem. The other man writhed and rocked into him, meeting his thrusts, moans turning into a scream when John hit the right angle.

“ _John!_ Please, _harder._ Deeper, _please. JOHN!_ ” Sherlock’s words were breathy but loud, somewhere in between a yell and a desperate rasp. They sent a chill down John’s spine that mingled with his sweat, burnt through his erection. He wanted this so badly he could barely control his hips, could barely keep the steady motions from overtaking his senses, and he couldn’t help but oblige Sherlock’s plea.

He pushed in faster, deeper, closer to Sherlock who wrapped his legs around him, arms holding him close, fingers pressed into his back. The scratches on his back were healed, but Sherlock’s touch singed all the same, letting John feel the sear of their reopening even if the skin didn’t break. The need was there and John needed those fingers, needed Sherlock, more than anything. Their kisses were almost all teeth and tongue. Covered in sweat, breathing heavily in the same rhythm, John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat through his own chest wall.

He felt Sherlock writhe, buck, and thrust against him, the intensity of his closeness feeding his desire. Heard his gasps, and moans, felt the nails in the flesh of his back and slight tremble of the other man’s muscles. John knew he could barely hold on anymore, his climax burgeoning closer as Sherlock arched up into him, pressing his erection along John’s stomach.

John took a hand and stroked it down the detective’s shaft, producing a groan from Sherlock as his back arched even further, his hips bucking involuntarily. Keeping his hands steady, John moved his hand in time with his thrusts, feeling Sherlock push back, trembling with the added sensation, the friction as they ground together, wanton. John couldn’t control his movements, couldn’t think straight. All he could focus on was the warmth building in his abdomen and Sherlock.

“John, _JOHN!_ ” Sherlock’s orgasm washed over both of them, clenching around John’s cock, pushing him past sensibility, even as Sherlock bucked against his stomach, coming . He felt the other man relax, release beneath him. The room and everything else disappeared as John clung to the detective, thrusting into him hard once more, screaming his name at the top of his lungs.

“Sherlock, _Sherlock,_ fuck, _SHERLOCK_!” That yell punctuated the tightening of his groin, the heated burn of his orgasm stripping him of any modesty. He came hard, feeling Sherlock around his prick, feeling his body beneath him, so close, so near, so incredible. For a few seconds, his whole world was Sherlock and bliss, everything he needed. His breath was gone as he collapsed, sated and exhausted, onto Sherlock’s heaving chest. They lay there for several minutes, breathing together in rhythm, senseless, close.

John’s eyes closed, feeling Sherlock’s heartbeat against his own, savouring the contact. He didn’t ever want to move — didn’t want to experience anything other than Sherlock. Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock close to him. Sherlock right where he belonged. Warmth and Sherlock. That’s all he ever needed.

Gradually the room filtered back into his perception and John reluctanty slid out of Sherlock and rolled over to lay beside him, wrapping the sweaty, panting detective into his arms. It was a few seconds before either of them had recovered enough to speak.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock’s hair brushed against his chest, his fingers slowly tracing the outline of John’s scar. John couldn’t help but kiss his head, enjoying the smell of the other man’s hair and skin all around him.

“You have nothing to thank me for. I wanted...needed that as much or more than you did, Sherlock.” He tilted the other man's face upward toward his own, giving him a long lingering kiss. “I love you. I don’t want you to forget that. Ever.”

He ran a thumb along Sherlock’s cheek, and the detective smiled wistfully his gaze never leaving John’s.

“I don’t think I could even if I wanted to,” he said slowly, and quietly.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and John was struck by how sick and tired and weak he looked. Frail. Like he would shatter right there on the pillows.

“I’m going to grab a towel,” John said quietly, easing his arm out from under Sherlock’s body, Sherlock’s hand trailing along his hip bone as he stood. He looked down at Sherlock with worry weighing him down. “Lay still. We’ll get to bed in a minute.”

“No, John,” Sherlock murmured, eyes full of fear. “I don’t want to sleep.”

John traced a hand down Sherlock’s face, a thumb resting lightly beneath his tired eyes. “You need sleep, Sherlock.”

“I want to spend every minute with you tonight. Every second I can until you have to go.” Sherlock’s voice cracked, raw and uncertain. “Please don’t make me sleep.”

John couldn’t protest that. Couldn’t bear the pain in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I won’t. It’s okay,” he soothed, watching as Sherlock gently nuzzled his palm. “I’ll stay up with you.”

Sherlock nodded and sat up, and John moved to the bathroom to dampen a towel. The water was running when he made the decision. He didn’t care about the production, or if he was ruining ratings, or even if Sherlock wanted to know. He had to tell him. It was killing him now, and John had to relieve some of that pressure.

“I’m taking a shower,” the flat, dead tone came from the bed. Like he didn’t have any emotions left to put into his words. Like whatever remnants of feeling had been taken away with John. Shutting off the water and turning around to look through the doorway, he saw Sherlock struggling with a bathrobe. “To stay awake.”

“Okay,” John murmured, watching Sherlock stand shakily one hand to his forehead, and the other resting on the desk chair. The sickly pallor that ghosted across his face, whitening him, dragging him down, made John ill with guilt. Sherlock looked so defeated, shoulders stooped, balance wavering, his body language screaming an objection. Just at standing. And this was John’s fault. He stood there for a second, John just watching him as Sherlock shook himself into awareness, feeling the ache of responsibility.

“Sherlock,” John started, unsure of his words. Sherlock took a step forward, shaky,braving the looming open space of the floor. The first step landed softly on the carpet, Sherlock concentrating hard on the floor, even as his eyes squinted closed, even as he shook his head with unease. “I have to tell you about tomorrow.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He stumbled with the next step and John frowned, his words stemmed by the other man’s falter. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

And in the same moment that John realized that this was more than a manageable kind of exhaustion, Sherlock collapsed. John darted forwards, faster than he thought he could, watching the consulting detective crumple from the knees upwards, slumping heavily to the floor with a heavy thud. He couldn’t grab him — he was too far away, not quick enough, despite all the adrenaline that surged through him, how badly he wanted to be there. Sherlock was strewn on the carpet, a broken pile of limbs, by the time John reached him.

Panic set in as he kneeled by Sherlock’s side. Doctoring instincts abandoned him for a fleeting moment as he shook the other man gently.

“Sherlock,” he called, the panic in his voice not doing him any good. Nothing registered on the detective’s slack unconscious face. “Sherlock?”

Nothing. No response as he pulled Sherlock’s head into his lap. Not even the cringe of awareness.

“Please,” John murmured, not sure what he was asking for now. For Sherlock to be alright, for him to be able to fix it, for the trial that was these last two days to be over. “Please.”

And then he forced himself to calm down, forced himself to think. Vitals. Check his vitals. He checked for a pulse — steady and strong. Breathing even and deep. A light fever, but otherwise alright. John’s stomach flopped and settled, feeling the relief of what he should have known already. Sherlock had passed out. Exhaustion. Overexertion. Simply too tired to function any more, too tired to stay awake no matter how badly he had wanted it.

He sat there for a long time, Sherlock’s head in his lap, his heart cracking with each slow gentle breath. This was his fault. He had broken this man and let him shatter because he wasn’t supposed to tell him how he felt. Because he’d played by some stupid rules instead of just telling him. It was horrible. And all he could do now was hold the detective close.

All Sherlock had wanted was more time with him. Not to sleep. And his body had betrayed him. And John had betrayed him — let him feel this much pain. Let him push past tired to the point of collapse, to the point where he couldn’t save him. And he hadn’t even been able to tell him.

Carefully, gently, John slid his arms under Sherlock’s body and devotedly carried him over to the bed, surprised at how light he was. He lay the consulting detective down and pulled the covers up around them before retrieving the damp towel from where he’d dropped it on the floor and wiping them both off. Then he crawled in next to Sherlock, a hand on the other man’s chest, feeling the throb of his heart. Feeling the ache under his fingers. The ache that he had put there.

He had to tell him in the morning. He couldn’t let Sherlock suffer any longer. Couldn’t leave him without letting him know. Because those eyes were shut and trusting — trusting John with his heart, his life, his care. Trusting John to hurt him tomorrow, and not caring about the consequence. And the only thing John could do was tell him. Just tell him. Tell him and wait until morning came, with his hand on Sherlock’s chest and eyes keeping watch on Sherlock’s unbroken, unbidden, sleep.

John knew that there was no way he’d get any sleep himself. At least tonight. That was fine, though. He didn’t need sleep — didn’t want it. Even if Shelrock couldn’t be awake to spend that time with him, John would stand watch like he had promised. Stay up like he had promised. Spend every moment with Sherlock that night. Right now, there was nowhere else he could stand to be, and there was no feeling more important than Sherlock’s body next to his own.

~

The first thing he had done in the hallway was shut the microphone off and settle in for the night. When John and Sherlock started talking, he left it off. The two of them sounded like they needed the time together, and they definitely didn’t need someone recording the broken snippets of conversation Billy had overheard. John and Sherlock weren’t typical contestants — this was hurting both of them far too much.

Steve be damned — Billy was tired of the implication that he should sacrifice his humanity for the love of ratings. No. That wasn’t happening. Turning into a miniature Steve seemed like a fate worse than death.

So he sat in the hallway with a shut off microphone and respected the bit of privacy he could give them, all the while thinking of what he would tell the producer in the morning. Clearly the equipment was busted. Honestly. No word of a lie.

And as he was carefully considering what shade of red Steve’s face would potentially turn upon hearing that Sherlock’s room was still a black hole, Billy listened to the conversation getting quieter — he thought John must have been leaving. He had almost gotten up when the other noises started, and then he was doubly grateful that the mic was off. He doubted that John and Sherlock would really have wanted the world to hear their very loud sex. Though a good portion of the hotel had probably done just that.

After a couple of climatic screams, things had quieted down and Billy had sank back against the door to try to sleep. At nearly eleven, there was some muffled conversation, followed by a loud resounding thud that was concerning. Billy had been almost tempted to knock and make sure they were alright, but then he heard John talking. Just John with no response from Sherlock. But there had been some walking around, so he figured he could safely assume that no catatstrophies went on behind that door.

After he had finally _gotten_ to sleep, he actually slept pretty soundly — though not comfortably. Hard floors and stiff walls were never going to be his choice of bed. And he could emphatically say that he wouldn’t be working in reality television any time soon.

But now it was ten to six in the morning, and he had to wake John. Well, didn’t _have_ to. Technically he was just supposed to head in there and film them no matter what state they were in. But he liked John and Sherlock wasn’t bad either, no matter what Dave or Steve or even Frank may say. So he was going to warn them first before he filmed what Steve so gleefully termed ‘the walk of shame’. Give them a minute to collect themselves and get dressed. And then Billy could finish his final day in this hellish internship feeling a little bit better about himself.

He couldn’t wait to go home.

~

There was a heavy rap on the door. Sherlock didn’t stir, but John pulled himself out of bed to answer it, stopping to put his trousers on before he got there.

John hadn’t slept a wink, exactly as he promised. Instead, he had watched over Sherlock, checking to make sure he was okay and just being there. Listening to him breathe, feeling his skin, and his breath. Watching the softened features of his face and the almost imperceptible movements of his chest. Sherlock had barely moved all night, and when he did he stayed close to John, as if even in his sleep he didn’t want to let him go.

He pulled the door open a crack, peering out into the hallway only to be greeted by the intern.

“Morning,” Billy said quietly. “Sorry to wake you up, but I thought you’d appreciate the five-minute warning before the crew got here.”

“Thanks,” John replied, his heart sinking already. He’d have to wake Sherlock. “I really appreciate that.”

“No problem.” Billy shrugged. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

John nodded slightly, closing the door carefully, silently, heavily. The last barrier between him and reality. He had to wake him up.

John dressed quickly, quietly, getting ready. He had to go, but Sherlock didn’t. And he didn’t want to spend his last few minutes with Sherlock getting ready to leave.

John sat lightly on the bed, stroking Sherlock’s head, gently resting his hand in the other man’s hair, with the other settling over his chest. Sherlock didn’t stir, but John could feel the beat of blood pounding through him, the life of the man he loved. It meant everything to him, just this little bit of peace. And he could feel the time slipping by, sliding out of his grasp, leaving him there and he knew it couldn’t last forever. It couldn’t last much longer.

“Sherlock,” he called quietly stroking his head as Sherlock started to stir, creasing his brow before lying still again. “Sherlock. We have to get up. Come on, now.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open that time, bleary, unfocussed. They searched through the haze to find John, sitting patiently there, close.

“Morning,” John said softly as Sherlock struggled back to awareness. “We’ve got about five minutes before I have to go, and I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Shit,” Sherlock swore, his hands coming up to scrub at his face. He groaned loudly, and slammed one fist hard into the mattress, all the anger at himself reflecting in his face. “ _Fuck_. I didn’t want to sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” John’s heart broke as the pain scrawled across Sherlock’s face, etched the lines and shadows back into place. “You collapsed. I couldn’t wake you.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not.” Sherlock lay there with his eyes closed, squeezing them tight, shutting John out. His words were desperate to rewrite the last seven hours. “ _Fuck_.”

A kind of grief hung in the room, heavy and cloying. John knew he needed to leave, knew he couldn’t let the cameras see Sherlock like this, so he reached down and lifted him up into John’s arms, kissing the other man, deeply. One more kiss before he left. Tongues tenderly caressed in each other’s mouths, lingering, trying to hold onto the moment and stretch it for as long as possible. They held it there, just gathering every bit of strength from each other. They needed strength, or they wouldn’t be able to go forward, they wouldn’t be able to make it to the afternoon. Sherlock couldn’t manufacture time and John couldn’t erase the pain, and both of them kissed until it felt a bit better. Until the numbness set in and they could pretend that their hearts weren’t being torn from their ribcages to splatter on the floor. But John could still feel the tightness building in his chest even as Sherlock clung to him, held him. It felt like a goodbye.

He had to pull away, Sherlock waiting a second more before letting him go.

“Sherlock,” John started, his throat tight. “You know, today–”

“John,” Sherlock sighed, a well of despair in that one word. “It’s only a few more hours.”

“Yes, but you need to know.” John could feel his heart thudding. Could hear something in the hallway. He had to get this out.

“I don’t want to know,” Sherlock implored. “Don’t make me listen to it twice.”

The door rattled slightly, and John heard voices.

“But–”

He had waited too long. The click of the lock startled them both and the intern from before popped his head in. John’s heart sank into his stomach, his last chance crashing. He had to leave now.

“We’re ready for you, John,” Billy said calmly, not looking too happy with whatever was outside. “Mic’s on, but we’ll leave the cameras outside for a minute so you two can finish getting dressed.”

John nodded, Sherlock buried his head into John’s chest one last time as the door closed partway, leaving just a crack ajar.

John ran his fingers through the other man’s dark curls one last time before standing up and trying to leave. Not walking so much as trudging steadily, forcing his feet to keep moving, to take him forward. It was all he could really muster at this point. And really, he didn’t stop himself before glancing back. He needed to see Sherlock, just one more time. And Sherlock was there, sitting up staring after him. Legs curled up close to his chest, an arm wrapped around his knees. Beaten, battered and broken by John Watson.

“Goodbye, John,” he said barely audibly, before turning his face away towards the wall.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” he replied. The first quiet sob he heard wracked his heart, made him falter, made him start towards Sherlock. He couldn’t leave him like this. He _couldn’t_. This wasn’t how this was supposed to end.

But the door was starting to open, cameramen already gathered in the hallway, gesturing for him to hurry. And he couldn’t let those cameras see Sherlock like this. This wasn’t something for other people to see, wasn’t the kind of hurt he would let the producers dramatize. He had to go. But before he did, he turned back one final time.

“I love you.” John’s voice seemed to echo through the room, and he had to leave and shut the door behind him. Before he could be swayed by the hushed sobbing. Before he broke any more of Sherlock’s heart.

~

The cameras filmed him from a little way down the hall as John closed the door slowly. He paused as the handle clicked into place, his hand unwilling to leave the door. His other hand settled into his pocket as his shoulders slumped, brushing lightly against the small plastic skull. John swallowed hard on the lump in his throat and pushed away harder than necessary. Hovering for a moment, uncertain, he forcibly left Sherlock alone and started down the hall towards Steve, Dave, and the camera.

Steve patted him firmly on the back when he reached them.

“Great, John, good to see you,” he said rather loudly, the joviality not able to pierce John’s melancholy. “I’m going to let that last slip up go — we let it go last time too, you know. But you have to stop saying the ‘love’ words.”

John really didn’t care what Steve let go or not. He doubted he could care any less than he did at this exact instant.

“Not that it matters anymore,” John muttered, not in the mood for rules or pleasantries.He was done with all of it. He just wanted to finish this — wanted to get to the happier part.

“True,” Steve agreed, letting his hand drop off John’s shoulder as he turned to the cameras. “Now go get some shots of Sherlock, Frank. Billy and I will head out to meet the jeweller.”

“What do you need Sherlock for?” John said loudly as his heart beat cold in his chest, taking a step to block off Frank from continuing down the hall. Frank paused in his trek, waiting.

“Just typical ‘morning after’ shots — builds suspense and character,” Steve explained, making a shooing motion at Frank. Frank didn’t move and neither did John. John wasn’t about to move. He was going to protect Sherlock.

“Leave him alone,” he snapped. “You can give him a few hours of peace to collect himself.”

“John,” Steve said with a half-chiding tone. Like he was trying to belittle him. John felt himself straighten, authority in his stance.

“No. You don’t need those shots, and he does _not_ need you to be in there filming right now.” He heard himself barking, anger seething inside. Sherlock had enough to deal with. John wouldn’t let them put this pressure on him. That was too much. They could take their fucking ratings and shove it. They’d be in Sherlock’s room over his dead body.

Steve practically turned purple. “John, reality shows _thrive_ on this! He’s upset — this is _gold_. He signed a contract and we _will_ be filming him.”

“Absolutely not,” John yelled, his fists clenching at his sides. Not thinking about anything but how viscerally he did not want them in there with Sherlock. “He is a person — not drama for your show. And you _will_ leave him alone.”

“I don’t think I will,” Steve growled, challenging him, facing him off. John wasn’t backing down. Not for this. Not on Sherlock.

“I think you will.” John’s voice was low now, cold, threatening. “I do not value a piece of paper over people.”

Steve scrutinized him for a few moments, determining if he meant that.

“Now, look here–”

“Steve.” Dave stepped forward — John had almost forgotten he was there. The host hadn’t said anything since they started talking. “We took lots of footage yesterday. I don’t think we need any more.”

He looked at John and actually seemed concerned which wasn’t surprising considering how bad Sherlock had looked the day before. And John couldn’t have been more grateful for that little bit of sympathy. There was someone on his side.

“But it’s great for ratings,” Steve grumbled, some wind coming out of his sails. Dave seemed to have more clout than John ever could.

Dave shook his head. “With everything we got yesterday, we don’t need it. Besides there will be lots later too. I don’t think he’s going to...feel better, if you know what I mean.”

Those words ground into John like sharp gravel on his skin, but at least Steve seemed to consider them. Finally he shrugged.

“Fine. I suppose you’re right. Frank, you’ve got a couple hours off.” Steve ordered. “Take a break, grab a coffee. I’ll see you in two hours.”

“Thank you,” John said to Dave more than Steve, relaxing a bit. At least one weight was lifting off his shoulders. And Frank looked really relieved to not be working.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Steve said with a laugh, bitter and nasty. “You won’t like me much by dinnertime tonight. Plus we had a mic in the hallway all night so I’m sure there’s lots on that too.”

Steve said the last bit with a sneer, like he had won some small victory.

John caught sight of the intern standing just behind the producer. The one that was trying very hard not to laugh while he played with the microphone’s frayed, obviously faulty wiring. When he made eye contact, he pointed to the broken connection and gave a small thumbs up.

~

Sherlock had moved, barely able to stand, until he could sit beside the door, listen to John leave. He felt like a piece of brittle glass, already crushed into shards, all sharp angles and slicing edges, useless and painful. Broken and worthless. Waiting to be swept up and dumped in the bin.

But he could hear the words John said in the hall. Defending him from the cameras, giving a few more precious hours to himself, to pull himself together before he could finally fall apart for good. And John’s voice, filtering through the door, under the crack there, across the hallway — those words wrapped around him like a safety net, catching him, making him feel protected. And he sat there for a long time, just savouring those words, treasuring their succour, feeling loved. And he really did feel loved. John loved him, and he loved John dearly, deeply, completely. That was what he was holding on to. That was what filled his senses as he closed his eyes, overpowering his sight and hearing, tasting John on his lips.

For as long as he could hold onto it, he was going to keep that feeling, keep feeling loved and safe. Because it was the very last time he would feel that way.

~

“So, are you confident about your choice for today?” Dave asked smoothly, conducting his usual interview. John sat there, a hand in his pocket, fingers repeatedly brushing against a little plastic skull, waiting for this to be over. His choice hadn’t changed since he’d made it. Nothing could change his mind on this, and after the last few days he was absolutely positive he’d made the right decision. “Any doubts or uncertainties left for you, John?”

“No. I’m completely sure of who I’ve picked.” John tried not to sigh or rub at his eyes. It wasn’t classy, and they’d make him re-answer this section. Steve could be bossy during interviews. John was tired, and he could still feel Sherlock’s heartbeat against his palm, his hands on his back. Focussing on this interview was proving more difficult by the second. But he had to get through this. Had to be finished soon. For all their sakes.

“No doubts at all?” Dave questioned, raising an eyebrow at his confidence.

“None.” John was sure of this. He might not have been sure of anything else right then, but he was sure of his choice. “None whatsoever.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Dave looked more concerned than glad, but John ignored that. “It’s been a long journey. On one hand, you’ve got Sarah, who everyone thinks is the right person for you. And on the other, you’ve got Sherlock. A wildcard that stayed in the deck. Are you in love?”

“Completely,” John answered, voice softer than he intended. “Completely, utterly in love.”

“Are you sure they love you just as much?” Dave’s question brought a sad smile to John’s face.

“Yes. I don’t think I could ever doubt that.” Dave smiled at him, but John didn’t see. He was lost in thought, in memory.

~

The jeweller came with his metal case, shook John’s hand, and sat down. They barely spoke before he popped the case open and showed him the rings — half women’s, half men’s.

“This one here is beautiful for a lovely lady,” the jeweller said, holding up a ring with a huge stone and a diamond encrusted band. John pictured it on Sarah’s small, well-manicured fingers. If anything, it seemed a bit too pretentious. “If she’s the one, you might want to look at this. Or this one, if he is.”

The band he pointed at for Sherlock was plain, a simple stone set into it. John didn’t like either of them.

He wanted the right ring — the one that suited his future spouse. And John had an image in mind, a picture of a hand in his, ring sparkling, belonging on that finger. Just like their hands belonged together. Just like _they_ belonged together.

He scanned the box, carefully examining the rings, the variety, the design. There was a lot of selection and a lot of rings to choose from. Probably because they wanted him to have as many options as possible. Most of them were beautiful but typical, with a big stone. But a few near the back were elegant, well-crafted pieces. And John’s eyes settled on the right one almost immediately.

He picked it up and examined it.

“That one is one of my best,” the jeweller said loudly. “Though not a style in much demand. Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect.” John let it rest in his palm, sparkling in the sunlight. He knew that this was it. This was his ring. For his other half.

~

“John, you’re sure about this?” Dave said, pulling him aside as the jeweller left. John wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. He was almost done. This was almost over.

“Positive,” he replied, a bit of acid in his tone. Dave wasn’t being unfriendly, but John didn’t want to answer that question _again_. Dave sighed.

“Look, I know I’m not the person you want to talk to, but listen to me.” He paused, biting his lip, debating how to broach the subject. “You should be sure. Especially since Sherlock’s taking this so badly.”

“I am.” John didn’t snap. He didn’t yell. He didn’t get angry. Dave had been worried earlier and he looked worried now. “I’ve known this was the right choice for a while.”

“I know. But...” It was the first time John had ever heard Dave at a loss for words.

“I picked for love. And that’s it. There isn’t a better reason that I know of.”

“Alright,” Dave said, still looking uncertain. “At least you’ll have that.”

~

“I’m nervous and excited, all at once,”

Sarah laughed. “This whole thing has been such an adventure, such a privilege. I never knew I could feel this way or find love so easily or find someone who complimented me so well. But I have. Nothing compares to that. Nothing. I can’t be sure that I’ll win but I really hope I do. I can’t believe how wild and amazing all of this has been.”

~

“Honestly, this whole thing was originally just a diversion. I’m not sure what else to say about it.” Sherlock had put himself together by the time he had to film confessionals. He looked rough and exhausted, but presentable. That was all he could manage. “But I am glad I came here, of all places. Otherwise I might not have met John. Any subsequent suffering on my part is worth that one event.”

~

The cameras followed Sarah as she put her makeup on, carefully coating each lash as if making herself look prettier would change John’s decision. It wouldn’t, but the producers wanted her to look flawless and she was inclined to oblige.

She had been outfitted in a beautiful flowing green dress — ankle length chiffon billowing around her legs and clinging to her hips. She looked stunning. Undeniably stunning. And when she walked out of her room, she walked with confidence.

~

“You have to wear it,” the intern sighed, pushing the tuxedo again. “Listen, I think it’s ridiculous too, but the producer says you have to.”

“I don’t feel much inclined to care what they say I have to wear,” Sherlock scoffed, pulling his façade into place. He could feel the various parts of himself shattered and separated, floating inside the shell he was holding together for the benefit of cameras. But he could keep the outside intact. His unwilling sleep had done one thing at least — for the hours leading up to his last meeting with John he had been able to reconstruct some vestige of his social persona, put himself back on display. But he was continuing on his own terms. He was really too sick to do otherwise. He only had a little while left anyways — this was the last of the filming before he saw John. “I have my own clothes and I will be wearing those.”

Billy opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock wasn’t going to. Not right now.

“There is nothing you can say to change my mind, and I do not care what Steve wants. I’m not wearing it.”

“Okay. Fine.” Billy sighed and heaved the ridiculous suit back into its bag. “But that’s your head on the line. Not mine.”

“Fair enough.” He really didn’t care about his head right now. He was going to see John. His heart was on the block, waiting for the guillotine to fall. Waiting to see John.

One last time.

He could feel the intern’s eyes on him watching as he got up and went back to emptying his drawers into his suitcase. He was shaking, and he was sure he looked terrible — though probably marginally better than yesterday. He certainly didn’t feel better than yesterday. He felt worse.

“Look,” Billy said, words loud and certain in the quiet room, “you’re going to be fine.”

Sherlock’s stomach curled in on itself and he could feel the sneer forming on his face. _Fine_? What about this was going to be fine? The part where he was rejected on national television? The part where the only person he had ever loved and _would_ ever love told him that he loved someone else?

“I’d rather not have your platitudes, thank you,” he replied, trying to keep his frustration bottled. Trying to keep his emotions under control. If one slipped out, there was no telling how quickly he’d break down.

“No, really,” Billy insisted, looking exasperated. Tired. “You’re going to be fine. It won’t be that bad.”

“Stop,” Sherlock snapped. Cold, harsh. The word representing the last of his control. “I’d rather not discuss this.”

Billy made a sound that was probably some form of exasperated huff. “You don’t understand.”

Sherlock ignored him. He had no patience for empty consolation. He didn’t want to explain to some random individual how really and truly bad the aftermath of this would be. How devastated he was already. He didn’t want to think about how obvious it was to anyone and everyone how much pain he was in and how he was probably going to have to deal with more pathetic stares and false sympathy all the way back to his empty abyss of a flat. There wasn’t anything left to salvage and he couldn’t pretend there was to make some people feel better. It was over. Everything was over today.

“Alright,” Billy said with a sigh. “Let’s start filming.

~

Sherlock was as ready as he could be on the outside. Purple shirt, no tie. Black suit jacket and pants. He wouldn’t look like a mess. He would _not_. John didn’t need that. John needed him to look okay. Needed him to be able to smile and tell John that he loved him and that he understood and could be happy for him. Even if he was never going to see John again. John needed Sherlock to let him go without the guilt or the pain or the devastation.

And John would get that. If it killed him, Sherlock would let him go. And keep all his hurt away from him so that John didn’t have to worry anymore. So John could move on with his life and maybe forget that he ever knew the world’s only consulting detective.

But Sherlock didn’t want him to forget. He wanted John to put that skull on his keys. He wanted John to take it out everyday and for just one minute remember Sherlock Holmes and how much Sherlock Holmes loved him. He wanted that to make him feel a bit of the warmth, a bit of everything that Sherlock had given him. Mind, body, everything that he was. Even if John was happy with Sarah, Sherlock just wanted that minute. That minute where John’s thoughts would linger on him and only him. Even if by then Sherlock was long gone, the broken pieces crumbling to sharpened dust in the ground.

He wanted John to please remember him. Remember that he loved him and that was eternal. Even when this killed Sherlock.

But that would have to wait until tomorrow.

~

Two separate helicopters. Sarah climbed into one. Sherlock, the other.

They both took off.

John was waiting on a grassy hill, surrounded on all sides by forest and flowers. The sun was shining and the wind was gentle — a picturesque proposal site. John couldn’t have asked for a better place to propose. Couldn’t have asked for a better day. Or a better person to propose to. And he was ready. The helicopters circled above him, one just out of visual range. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there. The other was coming in for a landing.

~

John watched carefully as Sarah gently stepped out of the helicopter. Graceful, smooth, and happy.

“Good luck,” Dave murmured, neutral even though he knew what happened next. This was his job.

“Thanks,” Sarah replied with a big smile, her eyes already drifting down the soft dirt trail — lined with flowers, of course — to John. They continued in silence, her excitement showing on her face as Dave led her down the path towards John, green dress billowing behind her. She looked so calm. Serene.

She gave John a kiss on the cheek when she got to him. He hugged her briefly before stepping back.

“Glad to see you,” she murmured softly. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

John took a deep breath, his smile faltering.

“Yeah, it’s been a long two months, hasn’t it?” He was trying to keep himself calm enough to say the right words. This was difficult, no matter how prepared or certain he was.

“Yeah.” She hesitated, tears welling in her eyes, like she was remembering something fondly. “You know, I loved you from that first night. You’re perfect for me, John. Everything I had wanted. And I want to be happy with you. You know that, right?”

“I do.” Of course he knew. How could he not? She was everything that he’d expected to find and more. She was everything he had been looking for. He had known that from the first night. Ten weeks had gone by both too quickly and too slowly, and had turned his world upside down.

He had fallen in love that first night, too. That night, all his expectations had changed. Against all the odds, his one-in-seven-billion, his perfect other half, had been in those twenty-five.

He had his speech memorized.

“Sarah, it’s been so great to spend time with you. We’ve had some incredible dates and some really special time together. It was everything I expected.” Her face lit up. John found he couldn’t smile back. “Every moment I spent with you was special.”

“It was for me too,” she murmured. John felt his stomach drop. She was so sure. He pulled out the gift that had been carefully hidden under a cloth on a small, nearby table.

It was her scrapbook.

“And that’s why I won’t be needing this. I’ll always remember you.” Her expression twisted into confusion. It hurt to watch. He wanted her to have known what was coming. “But, I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m in love with someone else.”

“No,” she whispered, the colour draining from her face. All the glow and spark washed out, leaving a very ordinary, very upset woman in a very fancy green dress. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I am.” She was just standing there. Staring at him. Lost. Like he had just stranded her in an ocean without a way to get back to shore. And John couldn’t meet her gaze. He couldn’t stand to see her clutching that book loosely in her hand, searching his expression, trying to find something to rescue her. There wasn’t anything for her to find.

“Why?” The question was stronger than he thought it would be. Forceful. Demanding.

“I love Sherlock.” Her accusatory gaze told him that wasn’t enough of an explanation. And John could give her more. He could give her a thousand reasons. But he tried to simplify it. “It’s not that you did anything wrong, or that you weren’t a wonderful, wonderful woman. You are wonderful, Sarah. But you’re not Sherlock. He’s the one I belong with. And he belongs with me. I didn’t know how deep love could be until I met him. He’s my everything.”

Her face twisted with something harsh. John wasn’t sure if it was tears, or anger, or both, but he knew he couldn’t help.

“Can I walk you out?” He offered mostly to be polite. There wasn’t really anything else to do.

“I suppose.” She didn’t move to take the arm he didn’t offer. She didn’t say anything. She just held her scrapbook and walked in silence for the first few feet. All the comfort that had been there before had dissipated. Gone. Dissolved. And it wasn’t coming back. Sarah was all sharp edges and bristling anger, her hurt radiating from her like spikes. After a moment, she spoke. “I don’t understand what went wrong.”

“Nothing ‘went wrong’,” John repeated, trying to be clear, not sure what to do with her anger. He didn’t want to hurt her more, but he couldn’t soften this blow. It wasn’t what Sarah did wrong. She just wasn’t Sherlock.“It wasn’t something you did.”

“It certainly seems like it was.” Sarah’s voice scratched as it came out, the words heavy and hard. “You were exactly what I wanted.”

John couldn’t say anything back to that that wouldn’t be more painful. The truth was that she wasn’t what he wanted. She hadn’t been what he really wanted since he had met Sherlock.

“You’re making a mistake,” she said, her words flat and hollow, “ and you know it. He’s not the right person for you.”

“He _is_ the right person. I know I’m not making a mistake.” John didn’t have to yell, he didn’t have to get angry. She couldn’t meet his eyes but he knew she could hear the truth in his voice. The reality. “I love Sherlock.”

“Do you think he loves _you_?” she snapped suddenly, the acidity of those words singing the air. “I doubt he’s capable of that.”

“He loves me.” There was no room for uncertainty. He could see Sherlock’s tears, feel Sherlock’s fingers in his, taste Sherlock’s mouth on his, picture the emotion he saw in the other man’s face when he said that he loved him. “There is no doubt about that.”

“I’m glad you’re certain,” she said with a tight, sarcastic smile. She didn’t believe him, but he wasn’t surprised about that. It wasn’t an easy to pill to swallow from her perspective. And if someone had told him three months ago that he would give everything she represented up without thinking twice, he would never have believed them. But no matter how many times he was asked the answer was the same: this was what he wanted. Sherlock was absolutely the person he loved most in the world.

“I’m sorry,” he offered weakly. She scowled in reply.

The silence dragged on, the walk too long, the tension too thick. Just before the helicopter, before Dave took her arm and escorted her away, Sarah stopped and turned to him, not willing to leave just yet.

“He wouldn’t make a good spouse to anyone, you know.” Her voice was steady now. Calm and cold. “I told you that. I lived with him for two months and I know him. You don’t. Not really.”

“I know more about him than you do,” John said with a sigh. Laura’s grand exit had made him sure of that. He didn’t doubt that fact anymore. He knew Sherlock, and he wouldn’t let anyone convince him otherwise. “Whether you can believe that or not.”

“I don’t believe that. At all.” Sarah shook her head.

John stood there and let the silence speak for him. He really didn’t care if she believed him. It was the truth.

Finally she spun on her heel and finished the last few feet of their interminable journey.

When they got to the helicopter — where they were supposed to say teary goodbyes — they stopped. Sarah went to get in, without saying anything. Then stopped again.

“I don’t know why you’d trade up everything we have for someone as unbalanced as he is,” she started, the blunt words sharpened with anger. He felt so callous watching the tears in her eyes. But there wasn’t any comfort he could give her. And she wouldn’t take any from him even if there was. “You’re making a stupid decision. If there was ever _anyone_ who should be alone, it’s him. He doesn’t belong with anyone.”

“He belongs with me,” John said with vehemence, his anger finally responding to hers. He was trying so hard to be sympathetic and kind, to not rise to the bait she was dangling. He understood. This hurt in the worst kind of way — she had been so sure, so happy. And he had ripped that out from under her. But he couldn’t abide this. He’d heard it too much, from far too many people. “And I belong beside Sherlock. No one deserves to be alone, and him least of all. You can’t appreciate him, but I can. He’s the man I love and you have no right to say that.”

Sarah looked like she had been slapped. The words were pouring out of him now, though, and he couldn’t stop himself from dealing that last blow.

“He might not be perfect, but neither am I. All I want is the right person for me.”

“And I’m not it.” He didn’t say anything. She wasn’t. She was amazing but she was not the right person. He would always feel bad for hurting her, but he couldn’t sugarcoat this. She turned away, the wall between them complete. All she had to do was leave.

“Fine. Goodbye, John.”

The helicopter blades drowned out the goodbye John didn’t need to say. The words were just a formality — everything they had together had ended days ago. He didn’t watch her leave. He didn’t look back.

~

Sarah didn’t start crying for a few minutes, but when she did it was a torrent. The cameras were gone. The magic was gone. John was gone. All of this had resulted in heartbreak and nothing. It hurt. And she hadn’t wanted it to. She had been so _sure_.

“This isn’t the way I thought things would end,” she said through the sobs, trying her best to keep talking for the cameras. “John wasn’t who I thought he was at all. This wasn’t what I wanted, what I thought would happen. Nothing went wrong.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, choking on a sob.

“I didn’t do anything wrong. He was supposed to be perfect. And I was sure he loved me as much as I loved him. What the hell can Sherlock give him that I can’t? What kind of life can John possibly expect with someone like _that_?”

The camera didn’t answer her. She didn’t need an answer. John was gone, and nothing would change that. The wound was already there.

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed as they took her back to gather her things.

~

Sherlock crawled out the helicopter, looking put together and calm despite the numbness spreading from his chest outwards. Killing him with every beat of his heart. He couldn’t put it off anymore. John was there, waiting for him, standing in a lush field of flowers and grass. This was it. This was all there was left. An expanse of grass and a man that he would always love dearly waiting for him. Waiting to tell him good bye.

Dave met him right outside the helicopter on a small knoll, away from John. They clearly wanted a dramatic scene of him walking down the lovely picturesque path before he had everything taken from him. Splendid.

“Sherlock,” Dave said, his tone warmer than usual. Sherlock didn’t need his sympathy. “John’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” he said, as polite as possible despite the screaming in his head, the pain and dread that threatened to blind him. Dave went to lead the way — to walk with him like he was supposed to — but Sherlock wasn’t about to have that. No staging. He was done with all that. He just wanted to see John. “I’ll walk on my own.”

“If you want,” Dave said, oddly respectful as he stepped aside.

Sherlock looked down the hill, and finally started down it, even though everything in him felt like lead. Like he should be crawling in the dirt he’d soon be swept into. But he was going to do this. For John’s sake he would seem as close to fine on the outside as he possibly could. He would stand and take the knife to the chest and pretend he wasn’t bleeding out. That he wouldn’t be bleeding for the rest of his life. He raised his eyes from his feet. John was waiting for him. Bright smile, slightly too stiff military stance, hair getting shaggy from two months of being too busy to cut it. In spite of the circumstances he smiled. Because he loved him, and even the sight of the doctor was comforting. Even now. And if he were less literal, maybe he could imagine that he were heading to his proposal. But he never was one for make believe.

John watched Sherlock make his way up the path alone. The consulting detective looked handsome and seemed calm, but John still had images of the night before. The quiet sobs from this morning. All the pain that still lurked underneath Sherlock’s careful expression. John didn’t need to see it to know that it was there. But Sherlock had smiled at him, and John couldn’t help but smile back. He loved this man. And he could get rid of the pain now, make that smile permanent. Slow, careful steps were bringing him the man he loved and John could erase the last few days of heartache and fear. It was going to be alright. Better than alright.

It was going to be incredible.

The distance was interminable for both of them, one excited, the other dead. But the gap was closing. As Sherlock reached the place where John was waiting, he was struck by how beautiful the other man was. His eyes traced from Sherlock’s eyes across cheekbones and down to his lips at the same time as John’s fingers reached out to touch him. Sherlock was gorgeous, even when he was tired and scared. And John was so happy, so ready to make this wonderful man feel better, that his hands were one step ahead of him. Feeling the arms and shoulders through Sherlock’s jacket as he caressed him, John’s heart pounding with love. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was close, and all he wanted was to kiss him and hold him and then ask Sherlock to marry him.

Sherlock let himself be pulled into the kiss, their lips pressed hard against each other, John’s grip firm and needy and everything he needed. And as they parted, John’s smile pierced his heart. Because he knew that he couldn’t ask John to stop and just not tell him what he knew was coming. He didn’t want to hear the words, didn’t want to hear John’s voice say them. He wasn’t sure his composure would last through that. He wasn’t sure that he would be able not to shatter.

“Hello, Sherlock.” John’s cheery greeting brought a lump to Sherlock’s throat. He was happy. And that was what he wanted for John, but it was without _him_ and that still hurt. Cut something deep inside him.

“Hello, John. I missed you.” He had. Every fibre of his being had missed John, even for those few hours, aching to not be so far away. Aching to still hold him. Aching to be held. For just a little longer. All he wanted was the time he couldn’t have. To not be here yet. It was too soon, too quickly gone.

“I did too. I miss you every time you’re gone.” John’s voice quavered, his stomach suddenly flopping. He had missed him so badly, so dearly, even though he had seen Sherlock that morning. He had barely been able to force himself to leave Sherlock there, even knowing that it would be better in a few hours. And that gave him the barest flutter of anxiety. Nerves. No matter how confident he was, he wanted this to be perfect — to justify all the heartache. Sherlock deserved the perfect proposal, the perfect ending to this extraordinary romance. John hoped he could make that clear — make all the love he felt evident in his words. “And I love every second I’m with you. Always. Being beside you is exhilarating, even when we’re not doing anything. Being close to you is an amazing experience. This is the kind of love people spend their lives trying to find. And I’ve found it with you. I love you, Sherlock. With everything in me.”

John’s sincerity rang in every word. And Sherlock loved that part — the part of John that loved him that much despite all his flaws. But that only went so far. He knew that. Sherlock could never offer him a normal life or stability. All he had was his love for John. All he could offer was his entire self. A very broken, disordered self that was far from perfect.

“I love you, John. With everything in me.” John was the only one for him. And he couldn’t tell him that now. He had to soothe any guilt that could be in John’s heart, even if he couldn’t see that guilt reflecting in his eyes. “You don’t have to say anymore. It’s alright. I just want you to be happy — even if it isn’t with me.”

John’s smile was the warmest one he’d seen, full of love and tenderness. Something that Sherlock never expected to be directed towards him before he met John.

“One of the many reasons why I love you so much,” John murmured, words filled with exactly how much he loved Sherlock. So much that he couldn’t quantify it. “And all I want is for you to be happy. Forever. And I think I know that you’ll be happy with me.”

Watching John slip a hand into his pocket, Sherlock felt his muscles tense, his fear melt away into confusion. John lowered himself slowly onto one knee, opened the small black box and held it up for him to see.

“Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?” Those words tasted so sweet on his lips. He’d been waiting for this moment for over a week, waiting to ask Sherlock to be his forever. Ask Sherlock to take him for a husband. The ring had been so light in his pocket — he had kept checking to make sure it was there, checking to make sure he hadn’t lost it. But now that it was in his hands, it was heavy, weighty, strong. The promise that he was giving Sherlock: to love him and only him eternally. That was a promise he would never break.

His question had been sturdier than John had expected, but the real thrill came with the shock on the other man’s face. Seeing that expression, seeing the change in Sherlock take over was everything John needed right then. Relief, joy. Everything. For the first time in days, Sherlock didn’t look hurt or tired or broken. And John couldn’t stop his smile from growing.

“You’re not serious?” Sherlock couldn’t believe how choked his voice was. How brilliant John’s smile was. That smile was honest and true and in love. As much in love as he was. This couldn’t be reality.

“I am completely serious. I can’t picture a life without you.” Everything had narrowed down to the two of them. There was John, Sherlock, and a ring, and nothing else existed. They couldn’t take their eyes from each other. “You are everything that I will ever want, Sherlock.”

“I’m not that amazing,” Sherlock said, his brain not caught up with what was happening. He wanted this so much, it couldn’t be real. It wasn’t possible

“You are though,” John insisted, wanting him to know this. Wanting him to understand the depths of how he felt. “You make me feel the way no one else can. You’re more incredible than I will ever be able to express.”

Sherlock was smiling. Smiling without any reserve, completely changed from earlier, all the sadness wiped away. Exactly what John had wanted. What he had been waiting for. Those blue-grey eyes were shining with love and surprise and something that went far beyond happiness. Joy. Elation. The same pounding, rushing, swirling joy that John felt. And he couldn’t take his eyes away from the sight.

The movement in Sherlock’s peripherals distracted him momentarily. One of the cameramen — the intern from earlier — was nodding furiously and gesturing for him to take it. Steve was standing there too, giving him the thumbs up sign while nodding. He looked back to John’s wide, loving smile.

“But Sarah was perfect.” She was. She was _perfect_. Agonizingly perfect, and how could this be real?

John couldn’t help but laugh — he’d heard that sentiment far too many times. Sherlock should know better. No one could ever compare to John’s consulting detective. “And you’re perfect _for me_.”

He stood there, shocked, waiting. Waiting for the breakdown, waiting for him to wake up and realize that, yes, he was still getting rejected today. Waiting for John to come to his senses and tell him to piss off so he could go marry the perfect woman that everyone else would have chosen. Obviously he had gone temporarily insane. That sort of thing. No one moved but John, who was still kneeling there, ring in hand. Real. This was real.

“I’m really hoping you’ll say yes. I can’t go home without you.” He took Sherlock’s left hand in his own, waiting for the answer. Patient. He would wait as long as he needed to. He could wait there forever, Sherlock’s hand so fragile in his, shaking with excitement — not fear, not debilitating depression. The long, white ring finger that would wear his engagement ring. That would wear his wedding band. John loved him so much. Sherlock was more than another person. He was John’s world. And watching him come alive again, watching him smile and waiting for that three-letter word, John could picture the rest of their lives. Happy. In love. Perfect. And theirs. The best future John could _ever_ imagine.

Sherlock felt a rush of pure happiness. More than he ever thought he could ever experience or that he could ever deserve. Yet here was John holding his hand, waiting for him to say yes so they could ride off into the sunset together, and start the rest of their lives together.

“Sherlock, will you marry me?”

“Of course! Yes! Of course I’ll marry you.” He could barely believe the words forming in his mouth. Of course. Yes. Of course he would marry John. This was all he could ever want. This was his entire world made whole. This was the breath being put back in his body. The blood back in his veins. It was a flood of life and love. Everything else was gone. He was going to marry John. John wanted to marry him.

Those words made John’s heart soar, his chest opening up and threatening to swallow him with the joy it contained. He felt the throb of a heartbeat, the pound of his breath, and Sherlock was close enough to touch, close enough that he could smell him, wrap his heart around him. This is what he had been waiting for. This is what he’s been waiting for his whole life, whether he had known it before or not. This was exactly where he was supposed to be. All he had to do was put the ring on Sherlock’s finger and make it permanent.

John very slowly slid the ring onto his finger, the stones shining in the light, John’s rough fingers feeling soft against Sherlock’s skin. As John stood, Sherlock found himself shaking, the emotions drowning him, the relief leaving him with nothing but John and love and their hands winding together.

And then they were together, the way they were supposed to be, John’s arms around him, Sherlock holding himself as close to John as possible, both of them unwilling to part. Unwilling to be farther than right against each other. Lips brushing tenderly together, long and slow, deepening with desperation, need, love. The pain and hurt and waiting washed away with John’s touches, with Sherlock’s fingers in his hair, with their happy ending. It was perfect. It was theirs.

Even when they stopped kissing, they couldn’t bring themselves to move out of each other’s arms. John smiled and Sherlock felt his throat tightening, tears threatening for good reasons. The only happy tears he could remember.

“Are you sure? Please tell me you’re sure,” he asked, one more time. His disbelief was fading, but it still felt surreal. He wanted to hear it one more time.

John laughed, happy to answer that question one more time. He’d answer any question for Sherlock, as many times as Sherlock needed him to. “I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life. I love you, so incredibly much. You’re handsome and amazing and everything I need in a husband. Everything I need _ever_. I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Pressing Sherlock close, remembering the horrible feeling of leaving that morning and how he never ever wanted to do that again, John felt lost in the emotions. Happy. Protective. Sherlock never had to hurt like that again. Never had to feel his heart break like that again. John would keep him close, keep him safe. His throat tightened as he leaned into Sherlock’s shoulder and whispered those words, the ones he wanted to say every day, every moment he was with Sherlock. “I’ll never let you go.”

It was the truth and it meant everything to Sherlock to hear it. He never wanted John to let him go, never wanted to be out of that embrace that made him feel protected and loved and warm. Now he had that forever. And his heart was throbbing to match John’s words. “I love you, John. I couldn’t live without you.”

“And I couldn’t live without you,” John murmured back, pulling him closer in their embrace. Sherlock leaned into him, pressed as close as possible, nuzzling his head into his neck. It was perfect, Sherlock close, Sherlock so light and heavy in his arms. The weight of his world in one man. Safe. Because John would never let him be in danger.. “This is my world. Forever.”

“Forever,” The detective promised, very quietly. Only John needed to hear him.

~

Sherlock’s hands were on John’s hips, John pushing him against the wall in the hallway beside their final ‘fantasy suite’. It had been really hard to break away from each other, especially considering that the cameras and crew had left them completely right after the proposal. They’d taken their happiness and headed straight back to the hotel. A quick car ride where relieved chatting had dissolved into touches and kissing and then they were back, practically running through the lobby, hands entwined, rushing to get back to each other’s arms, rushing to celebrate. And John couldn’t keep his hands off him and he couldn’t keep his hands off John. It all felt amazing and Sherlock couldn’t get enough. Now they were kissing, snogging, making out — distracted from finding the keycard that would get them the last few steps into their room.

And all it took to distract either of them right now was the brush of John’s palm in Sherlock’s, a touch of the elbows, a little bit of eye contact. And then they were lost in the joy, overcome by the giddiness of being engaged. Sherlock could feel John’s tongue in his mouth, John’s body against his, John everywhere. It was so easy to lose track of where they were, of how badly he had been feeling just a few hours ago.

And John was just as enveloped in Sherlock. A hand in Sherlock’s hair, one sliding down to cup his rear as they kissed, unable to stop tracing the lines of his body.

It was real. And the one thing that surprised both of them was how real it felt. Like everything but the engagement, but the happiness they felt had been swept to the side — less important. This was reality. They were in love. They were happy. And they were getting the fairytale ending people always yearned for.

Except it was better than that, because John was holding Sherlock and they were close and it was _incredible_. They didn’t need princes or carriages or castles for this to be perfect. It already was.

John could feel Sherlock groping in his back pocket, clumsily grasping the edge of the keycard and sliding it out, both of them incapable of pulling away. The detective’s hand went out, blindly pushing at the reader he couldn’t actually see beside him, struggling to slide that key in and out, a few awkward moments that ended in a gratifying click. John pulled back, bringing Sherlock with him, still kissing, and pushed them both through the door.

They only broke apart after they were in the room, and even that was just a short breath to close and lock the door before Sherlock’s hands twined into the collar of John’s shirt, desperately pulling him close again, they leaned against the door using it to keep them standing. Sherlock kicked off his shoes as John finished closing the very small distance between them. They didn’t need to breathe — they could just breathe each other. John could feel Sherlock’s nails picking at his buttons, could feel how much he wanted this man, how much they couldn’t let go. The friction between them.

A shrug of his arms had his heavy tux jacket on the floor, and Sherlock pulled at and tossed John’s tie after it. The first touch — John’s hand sliding across Sherlock’s abdomen — sent a current of lust to his groin. John’s touch shocked him, aroused him, and he couldn’t get enough of it. John was just as addicted, gasping as Sherlock moved his mouth to nip at his neck. John’s hands were grabbing Sherlock’s back, pulling at his clothes, senses too flooded to let him think of how to remove them.

Sherlock pulled back and John gulped in a breath of air, taking in the flushed and panting man in front of him for a moment — Sherlock’s dark, lusty stare stealing his breath — before shoving him roughly towards the bed. John’s shoes were kicked off, landing against the wall, as they stumbled across the room, ignoring the luxury of the suite for the sight of each other. And Sherlock landed heavily on the bed lust clouding his senses, prick throbbing, barely able to see anything but John in his loose shirt peeling off his trousers and underwear. That was what he wanted. John was all he wanted.

And as John’s cock caught his attention — hard and ready — Sherlock couldn’t help his groan.

“Fuck, _John_ ,” he moaned, “Please get over here.”

“Get your clothes off first,” John said, wicked smile spreading across his face as he made for the nightstand. He wanted _nothing_ more than to touch Sherlock, nothing more than to fuck his brains out. But they needed lube first. And it was there, just as he had hoped, just where the crewleft it, just like they had in the last fantasy suite . And when he turned back, bottle in hand Sherlock was standing naked and right there, arms snaking around John’s waist, kisses pressed to his collarbone.

A chill ran down his spine with Shelrock’s slow, loving caresses. If it was possible for him to be sexier, John wasn’t sure how. But the smile on the consulting detective’s lips was a huge turn on and John simply couldn’t resist him any longer.

Sherlock gasped as John pulled them together, letting their erections grind against each other, sensation and the thrill of closeness making every inch of them tremble. And John bit down lightly on the base of Sherlock’s neck — where he remembered a bruise, a gasp, a sensitive group of nerves — and reached around Sherlock’s back, awkwardly slicking one hand with lube while Sherlock gasped into his ear, his nails clawed into his skin. Carefully tossing the bottle to the bed, John’s slippery fingers slid down to Sherlock’s entrance and he pressed a finger in.

“Oh, god,” Sherlock groaned, head tossing back in pleasure. It felt so good. John felt so good. And he was so turned on, so ready. He wanted John inside him, wanted him as close as humanly possible, wanted everything John could give him. He needed that. And John was hitting his prostate and he needed _more_. “Fuck, John, _please_.”

“Not too fast,” John murmured, not entirely controlling himself, finger sliding in and out of Sherlock with precision, supporting both their weight when the consulting detective’s knees weakened. He held them for a moment, just stretching and thrusting, Sherlock’s every motion bucking against his prick, both of them barely upright.

With his last bit of coordination, John pulled out and lightly pulled Sherlock with him to the edge of the bed. Sitting there with Sherlock in his lap, hips fitting together perfectly, chests brushing, John started again with two fingers in him. And Sherlock felt himself relax, felt himself stretch, needy and wanting and so, so hard. He couldn’t wait any longer. He was ready and John was there and he just wanted him inside him.

“ _Now_ , John,” he growled. His heart was pounding, pushing the blood down to his prick, throbbing against John. “I’m ready. I need you. _Please_.”

“ _Unnnh_ ,” John groaned back, not nearly as coherent as he was oversexed. Hearing the words of pure unbridled desire issue from the throat of his very gorgeous, flushed, hard fiancé sent a flood of lust through him. And Sherlock’s need was as palpable as his own, as desperate as his own, and he couldn’t wait longer. Sherlock was stretched, Sherlock was ready, and John wanted him so badly.

Scrabbling behind him for the bottle, John managed to grab the lube and squeeze some onto his palm, to spread it onto his cock. After the first pass, Sherlock’s hand came to help him, to add to the pressure, stroking him with long, slow, senuous touches, the slight pull of his engagement ring only turning John on more, making his cock harder as it strained. He needed to be inside Sherlock _now_ , or he was going to lose control.

“Sherlock.” John’s one hand guided Sherlock’s hips, while the other positioned his own prick, holding the detective in his lap as he slowly lowered him down. The slow, languid, controlled penetration was the very last bit of command either of them had. As their hips met, they paused savouring that moment, the connection, the deepness. And then they started to move.

Sherlock’s muscles clenched, his head tossed back, as he lifted himself slightly and slammed back down on John’s cock. There was slight burn of pain, a little discomfort, but it felt so right and so good that he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. And he could hear John’s gasps as the other man’s head tilted up to look at him and John’s hands were clawing at his hips, dragging him down, harder, closer, more. _More_. He wanted more and more of John, more of John inside him, more of John around him, more of everything he could get of John.

“Please, John, _fuck_ ,” he whispered, gaspy, raspy words climbing their way out of his throat. “This is _incredible_.”

“ _Sherlock_...” John murmured, his fiancé’s name searing his mind, the only thing left in his consciousness. Through half-lidded eyes, he could see Sherlock pushing down hard on him, forcing John deep inside him, deeper, harder, tighter, closer. And the detective’s parted lips, closed eyes, swaying, desperate motions matched John’s. And John was thrusting back, hips bucking wildly, unable to get the image, the need, out of his mind. Sherlock tensed around him and John was so close — so close already — and it was so good. Every rhythmic grind, every thrust, every buck of his hips, was squeezing John’s prick, flooding him with pleasure, losing him in Sherlock. Sherlock was everything. Everything he wanted, everything he desired, everything he needed. And Sherlock’s sweaty gasps and clutches were driving him wild.

“OH, fuck, Sherlock... _SHERLOCK_.” Feeling a familiar heat and pressure in his abdomen, John knew he was close. So incredibly close. And he could see Sherlock’s eyes squeezed tight, his lips parted, gasping for air, his body arched, and that was all John needed. That wonderful sensuous glimpse of his fiancé, left him with one final throb, one final thrust as he pushed back hard, into Sherlock, deep, and satisfied and climaxing, his vision fading as he spilled himself into the other man, muscles shaking and clenching and heated. And he felt his arms quivering, his legs quivering, his toes curling, as Sherlock forcibly clenched around him, making the tightness even more right, even more perfect.

It was hard for John to catch his breath, to do more than lay back, still inside Sherlock and hold his consulting detective close. He chest heaved, gasping air back as his senses left him with only one thought: Sherlock was still hard.

Well, that and Sherlock was incredible. So two thoughts, but John was pretty sure his brain wasn’t really able to keep up with anything more complex than those two.

He fumbled a bit, muscles weak from the intensity of his orgasm, as he tried to roll Sherlock over and slide out of him.

“John, you don’t have to–”

The weak protest disappeared from Sherlock’s lips the moment John’s hand brushed the top of his prick.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Sherlock murmured, obligingly rolling onto his back and letting John wiggle away, sliding down his body, hot mouth sloppy as it kissed his chest. Sherlock didn’t mind the sloppiness. It was the heat he needed, the wetness he needed, the _John_ he needed. John was all he ever needed, and his messy, loose, sucking kisses just pushed Sherlock closer to the edge, his prostate aching wonderfully with the stimulation and his cock throbbing to be touched.

John did more than touch him.

As soon as John’s tongue swiped across the top of his prick, Sherlock found himself choking on a very loud moan. It felt so good, and every lick and swipe of John’s tongue making him twitch and buck and tighten. His stomach muscles tensed, his back arched, and John took as much of Sherlock into his mouth as possible and sucked _hard_ , pulling back slowly before bobbing down and doing it again.

Sherlock’s hand rested on the back of the doctor’s head, unable to think about anything but his cock and John’s mouth and how incredibly, incredibly good it felt. Good was not nearly a strong enough word, but his vocabulary was failing him and his thoughts abandoning him to focus on the image of his cock in John’s mouth and the minute detail of every sensation that brought with it. Sherlock was already close — he could feel the twitch, could feel the building orgasm just below the surface of his groin. And all it took was one more, slow, steady, perfect suck from John to send him over that edge.

“JOHN!” He came hard, fingers scrabbling for purchase, eyes closed, everything in him feeding that wave of pleasure, keeping his hips bucking and his muscles tense while John swallowed every last drop. John kept his tongue moving until Sherlock felt himself going limp, an afterglow tingling through him, warming him from his toes, the same way John did as he slithered back up beside him. John’s leg curled over his and an arm pulled him close and Sherlock’s world was perfect.

“I love you,” John murmured, still out of breath. Sherlock smiled, weak with exhaustion, his hand reaching to ruffle John’s hair.

“I love you too, John,” he whispered back, still in awe, still flooded with love, joyous and relieved. “I can’t believe this is real.”

John felt a small twinge — a reminder of last night.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I wanted to, I really did.” John’s words tumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, sadness dancing at the edge of his tone.

“No, don’t apologize,” Sherlock huffed, “You tried. And come to think of it a few other people did too.” Suddenly the intern’s words came back to him with a cringe. _You’re going to be fine_. “It is not your fault that I decided to remain an obtuse moron.” His disappointment in himself was weighing him slightly down even though it was muted now. Muted by John. By love.

“You’re not a moron.” John frowned, even though Sherlock couldn’t see it. The consulting detective was so self-critical for someone who was so smart and so incredible. “It’s not your area. You didn’t know.”

“I certainly didn’t,” Sherlock sighed, suppressing a yawn. He didn’t have time for self-deprecation. John was here. It was alright now. It was a hundred times better than alright and always would be. “It’s fine. I’m here. And you are. And I’m going to be your husband. That more than makes up for everything else.”

“You certainly are,” John murmured, leaning on an elbow to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes closing slowly, too heavy to keep up anymore. Too tired to stay awake. Too warm and safe and happy and in love to care about the fact that sleep was creeping up to claim him. He was in John’s arms and that was all he would ever need. This was real.

John saw the consulting detective yawn, watched his eyes drift closed and smiled, moving to stand up before Sherlock got too tired. “I’ll grab us a cloth.”

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed, rolling into the warm spot John left behind. John smiled, fond and warm and happy, unable to walk even to the bathroom without watching Sherlock’s half-drowsing for at least a moment. It was so peaceful. So right. They loved each other so much. And they both could feel it aching in a good way, deep in their chest, content, finally, to just be near to one another.

Sherlock was already asleep by the time John got back from the bathroom.

~

Sherlock’s sleep was soothing. The heavy rest of exhaustion was a lot better than collapsing, in John’s humble medical opinion. He had been worried about Sherlock, even with the rush of adrenaline and lust that neither of them seemed to have been able to ignore. It was okay now. And John could just sit and watch Sherlock sleep for a while, safe and happy.Then the detective took a deep breath, and John felt himself smile. This was the love of his life. Absolutely, and with no doubt. Sherlock was beautiful, and his. His heart, his life, and his everything. The feeling was so strong. Stronger than John had thought love could be. This was where he belonged.

He used the cloth and cleaned them both off, Sherlock omitting a slight grunt as he wiped his torso. It was heartwarming, the feeble, unconscious protest. And it took a bit of manoeuvring to drag Sherlock up towards the pillows and get him under the sheets, but the consulting detective simply let him, sleeping too heavily to be woken.

John got into the covers, as Sherlock unconsciously rolled onto his side, face turned toward John. Seven o’clock in the evening wasn’t really a great time to go to bed, but considering the events of the last few days, John honestly didn’t give a damn. Sherlock needed sleep and John needed sleep and they were both happy just to lie there and drift off. He kissed the other man tenderly on the check and slipped an arm around his waist, feeling his smooth skin, again marveling at how much he loved Sherlock.

He twined his fingers through the detective’s left hand, which rested on the pillow between them. The ring glittered on his long, thin finger, a testament to what they had gone through. Three diamonds — the largest in the centre with two smaller ones on either side — and a thick, carved band, accented with scrollwork and a smattering of small diamonds. The design was just what he pictured for Sherlock — low to his finger and comfortable enough to wear every day without being a nuisance, but still ornate and complex — like the art Sherlock loved so much. The same complexity that was in Sherlock himself. And John knew that the most important thing was what it meant now.

It meant that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would be together until death do them part.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Game (of Love)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224517) by [hum_hum_humbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hum_hum_humbug/pseuds/hum_hum_humbug)
  * [John Watson, Bachelor (Cover)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763617) by [Belladonna1185](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna1185/pseuds/Belladonna1185)




End file.
